


Waking the Lions

by Terminallydepraved



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: 2018 Hunter x Hunter Big Bang, Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Forced Captivity, M/M, Origin Story, Original Character Death(s), Physical Abuse, Trauma, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-23 18:15:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 37,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14338239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Terminallydepraved/pseuds/Terminallydepraved
Summary: Bruised and broken and shackled like a dog in a cage, Phinks lived his life as if every day might be his last. He had no reason to hope for better; he had nothing beyond the steel of the ring, the glare of the lights, the jeers of the hungry crowds eager for blood-- And even then, he only had that until he lost.Angels didn’t fly in this place...But one still came regardless.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> At long last, my big bang fic is here! I actually started this kinda late (around the first or second week of february) and finished it in about mid-march, so I've been waiting awhile to share this with everyone. The idea is far older, though. The PT's origin stories are something that's fascinated me for a while now and I felt it time to give Phinks his time to shine by writing out my version of it. 
> 
> Like the tags probably told you, this is not an easy read at times. Know your limits and if you're able to stick it out til the end, then I hope you find it a good read. Updates will come daily (starting Wednesday), so leave me some nice comments to let me know how you like it! 
> 
> Art for this fic:
> 
> Yougei: http://yougei.tumblr.com/post/175439698331/my-thing-for-hxhbb18-for-terminallydepraved
> 
> Happyclappyhippydrift: http://happyclappyhippydrift.tumblr.com/post/175357611775/phinks-wasnt-sure-when-they-went-from-sitting

The ache of broken skin and hunger felt the same here as it did at home, and though he no longer had the latter, Phinks wondered if he hadn’t just traded one cage for a much more literal one.

“Get in there!” a rough voice shouted, far too late a warning to do Phinks much good as a boot dug into his ribs like a tangible punctuation. Phinks cried out weakly and collapsed at the door of the cage, a kennel really, the cold, rusty bars rubbing against his cheek until it bled. “Don’t make me say it again, punk.”

Phinks spat out a globule of blood and spit, watching it land on the grimy floor. There were eyes on him now; dozens of them it felt like, maybe more. He trembled as he pushed himself onto his hands and knees. “Fuck you,” he rasped, voice lost to the pain and darkness. “I’m— I’m not fuckin’ yours.”

He let out a ghost of a scream as the boot connected with his ribs again, bruising something soft this time. What little height he had managed to gain was lost in an instant. He collapsed to the floor, his head falling inside the kennel. The stench of piss and mold greeted him instantly. Next came a laugh just as sickening.

“Got spirit, don’t you?” that voice laughed, growing louder as the man bent down to take a fistful of Phinks’s tattered shirt in hand. With one low grunt he hefted Phinks the rest of the way into the kennel, kicking at his legs and arms until they went too. “Can’t wait to see that break. This place rewards those who fight, punk, but only if you know who owns those fists of yours.”

Lifting his head was impossible. He had no breath to argue. He blinked blearily through the pain, blood and spittle running down his chin wetly, stickily. When he looked at the black blur hovering over him, he couldn’t make out the tailored suit or the tattoos banding his knuckles anymore. All he was was a blocky shadow, backed with white light. A devil. A demon. A… A…

“Monster,” Phinks spat, wheezing when every little breath sent his chest burning.

“Your new owner, you mean,” the man said as he slammed shut the door to the kennel, locking it with a grin Phinks didn’t need to see to know it was there. “Get comfy in there, punk. Welcome to your new home.”

There was no point in kicking against the door. Even if it would do something, Phinks knew it’d just hurt him more to try. He curled into a ball and cradled his ribs, sucking in rattling gulps of air as he tried to keep from crying. It hurt. Fuck, it _hurt_. The fucking monster was saying something, laughing and goading him, but he couldn’t hear the words anymore.

His breath was coming short now. It was getting harder not to panic. What was he going to do? The door to the cage rattled when he kicked weakly with a foot, not budging an inch. His chest seized. His heart hammered in his throat. White speckled his vision, fading to black around the edges. Why this? Why him? Why this why him why this why him—

His head hit the cold, rusted metal as he blacked out.

If the monster kept laughing, he was beyond hearing it.

\---

“Think he’s dead?”

“Bet he’s gonna wish he was when he wakes up.”

“Shut up already. It doesn’t matter anyway.”

“Fuck off, Nile. No one fuckin’ asked you.”

Phinks groaned, squeezing his eyes shut tight when the voices didn’t fucking stop. His head ached horribly, every word echoing like a gunshot aimed directly between his sore, scratchy eyes.

“Ah, he’s alive!” the first voice exclaimed, prompting Phinks to groan again. “Hey, get up already. What’s your name? What are you doin’ here?”

What was he doing here? If Phinks had the breath or strength to snort, he would have. He wasn’t here for his health; he wasn’t here for any reason beyond shitty luck, shittier family, and the knowledge that when it came down to paying off a debt or having his knees broken, dad felt Phinks the most expendable collateral within reach.

What he was doing here was bullshit. As far as Phinks could tell, it was the only certainty he had in a place like this.

Phinks dragged himself up, hissing and swearing through the pain until he had his back against the bars of the cage. The room was dark, his eyes straining to make sense of the vague shapes around him. “Let me out of here,” he wheezed, hacking up something he hoped wasn’t blood. “I’ll fuckin’ kill you.”

He growled when laughter answered him. It wasn’t the laughter from before. No, not from the monster, that fucking demon. This was young, pitying and rueful. “Gonna kill us in that state? No wonder Declan wanted you.” The sound of someone spitting rang out loudly from the dark, followed by the rattling of bars. “We’re all in cages, fuckhead. You’re just the newest addition to our little club.”

“It’s Phinks,” he snarled, turning his head in the direction of the sound.

“I don’t give a fuck.”

If the pain wasn’t making it so hard to breathe, let alone move, Phinks would have ripped the bars open himself and torn that voice limb from limb. He kicked again at the door to the kennel, biting back a whimper when it did nothing but hurt him more. Fuck. Why this. He didn’t even know where he was for fuck’s sake, and like hell was he about to ask these… these assholes what was going on.

“Psst.”

Phinks closed his eyes.

“Psst, Phinks? You said it’s Phinks, right?”

That first voice. The peppy one. “Fuck off,” he grunted, not in the mood for any of this.

“My name’s Iason, if you were curious.”

Of all the things Phinks was curious about, he could definitively say that was at the bottom of the list. He stared out into the darkness, bit by bit beginning to make out more than just vague shapes in the black. There wasn’t much light in this place; the most he could see came from the far end of the small room. A thin straight line down low. Probably a crack under a door.

Was it a way out?

He startled when a loud bang sounded in the room, rattling the bars of his cage. “I said, shut up already!” a voice shouted. Nile maybe. The one with the nasty attitude. “Some of us are trying to sleep!”

“Declan’s gonna be pissed if you break another cot, Nile.”

Nile scoffed. “I’ll just win again and get a new one anyway. I can do whatever I want!”

It was slow, but Phinks’s eyes were beginning to adjust to the darkness. He could make out a few other blocky shapes across from him. More kennels. They looked bigger than his though. He stretched his leg and found he couldn’t straighten out fully. A medium sized dog wouldn’t be comfortable in a cage this small, let along a fifteen year old like him.

“Where the fuck am I?” he wheezed, cutting off the argument brewing in the darkness. “Get me the fuck out of this cage.”

Nile laughed and Iason sighed, the other boy clicking his tongue like Phinks was an idiot for complaining. “You’re in hell, kid,” he said, his voice lower than the rest. Older? There was a slowness to it that made him sound lazy. Uncaring. “And that cage is the safest place for you.”

“It’s not that bad, Venny; stop bein’ dramatic.”

Phinks could practically hear Venny roll his eyes. “Says the lapdog.”

More bars rattling. Through the darkness, Phinks could just see a moving shape pressed against the kennel adjacent from him. “You wanna say that again, fucker?” Nile snarled, yanking and shaking his bars as if trying to break free. “Don’t be jealous just ‘cause Declan knows you’re too old to bring in the crowds!”

Phinks drew back his leg and rammed it into the bars of the kennel, cutting off Venny’s reply. Pain shot through him from his ribs, but Phinks sucked in a harsh, cold breath of air and kicked it again, feeling the bars bend. A few more kicks and he’d be free. What he’d do next, he wasn’t sure. Anything beat sitting around and listening to this bullshit all day.

“Woah, woah!” Iason shouted, sticking his hands through the bars of his own cage to get Phinks’s attention. He was closer to Phinks than the others were. They shared a wall together, their cages maybe only a few feet apart. “Stop that! He’ll hear it and come back!”

“Then I’ll kick his ass too!” Phinks grunted, the pain so bad it had him seeing stars.

“What a fucking idiot,” Nile groaned, backing away from the bars to flop himself down on… Was that really a cot? Why the fuck did that asshole get a bed and Phinks didn’t?

“Please, Phinks,” Iason begged, the wide whites of his eyes almost visible in the dark. “Stop before he hears—”

The thin band of light at the far end of the room thickened, the door screeching open on rusty hinges.

“Shit,” Venny sighed, rolling over to put his back to the situation. “Now you’re in for it.”

A shock of fear jabbed its way through Phinks’s heart and down into his stomach like a knife made of ice. He drew back his leg in a panic, kicking the bent door again and again, the shadowy monster in the doorway facing him instantly at the sound.

“What the _fuck_ is going on in here?”

“We told him to stop,” Nile drawled, arms crossed behind his shaved head as he grinned in Phinks’s direction. With the light flooding the room through the open door, Phinks could make out every single inch of his smug, pug-like face. “Think you picked up a dumb one, boss.”

The monster from before, Declan, crossed the room and yanked the bent door to Phinks’s kennel off its hinges as if it were made of paper. “You’ve got a lot of nerve,” he grunted, throwing the metal at a wall. Phinks stopped breathing, backing himself up as much as he could in a space too small for him. It didn’t do any good; Declan grabbed him by the ankle and dragged him out, throwing him roughly to the hard, straw-covered floor.

“Do you have any idea what time it is, punk? Even I need my beauty sleep.” Phinks rolled onto his back, glaring up at the mobster above him. The suit was gone but the tattoos were still there, along with the makings of a beard. Phinks caught a whiff of stale beer on his breath. Just like dad, he thought cynically. But Declan was talking again, and Phinks forced himself back to the present just in time to be spat at.

“Ugly fucks like you obviously don’t. If you’ve got the energy to destroy my generous gifts, I suppose you’ve got the energy to be initiated, don’t you?” Declan snarled, his teeth yellow… no, capped in gold.

Nile snorted and Venny sighed. Phinks couldn’t see what Iason did. He was too scared to look away from Declan to check. Initiated? What the fuck did that mean?

Declan looked at the others with his hands on his hips. “Thank the new dog for costing the rest of you your sleep. If you’re all this lively, I gotta assume you’re in need of an outlet.” He clapped his hands pointedly and the rest scrambled off their cots and pillows. “Training time, boys! Rise and shine!”

There was a smattering of grumbles as Declan opened the rest of the cages and let the others out. Most were secured with thick padlocks, but Nile’s big ass kennel had it’s own built-in combination lock. Seriously, what the fuck gave with that? Phinks sure as hell wasn’t going to cry foul over the blatant favoritism right now, but it rankled still.

“Not even here for a day and he’s already causing problems,” Nile grumbled as Declan opened his door.

“You weren’t a perfect ray of sunshine when you got here either, brat,” Declan snorted, slamming the door shut once the kid was out.

The ease in which they bantered disgusted Phinks, and he slowly lifted himself to his feet, holding his ribs carefully as one by one the boys lined up beside him. He took them all in subtly since he could now that there was light enough to do so. Venny was by far the oldest of them. Seventeen? Eighteen? It was hard to tell given how skinny he was, but he had the makings of a beard and the eyes of someone who’d seen and done too much to give a shit about anything anymore.

Nile was next, still grinning and strutting like a real cock. He crossed his arms and shouldered past Phinks roughly so he could stand at the front of their little line. His head was shaved and his scalp bore multiple scars. His nose had been broken a few times, but it didn’t stop him from sticking it in the air like he deserved the world and more. Phinks was sure that if they had ever met on the streets, he would have beat the shit outta him on principle alone.

And that left Iason… Phinks was a little surprised when he finally got a look at Iason in the light. His voice had been high pitched, young. But… the kid standing at his side was as runty as they came. His head barely came up to Phinks’s shoulder, his wild mop of hair giving him another sorely needed inch. The clothes he wore were old and baggy, hand-me-downs that had long since seen better days. The kennel he’d come from was bigger than Phinks’s. It sported a thick cushion on the floor and a few blankets with holes in them. A thin silver necklace hung from the kid’s neck.

And then there was Declan, taking them all in like prized little teacups he couldn’t wait to chip. Phinks scowled as he looked at him. Not much was different about him today compared to the last time they’d met. He wore a stained and wrinkled button up and trousers that looked dusty. He was tall and big, broad in the shoulders and thick in muscle he didn’t need to show off to make known. He paced in front of their line, smiling a sharp, dangerous smile that Phinks found hard to meet. He’d seen guys like him before. Strong, cruel, rich if that rolex were any indication—

The mafia ruled Meteor City. Phinks didn’t need to wonder if this guy was one of them too.

“Not off to a good first day, are you, punk?” Declan sighed, clicking his tongue. He nodded at Nile and waved his hand at the still open door. “Go on. Let’s make the newbie comfortable with his new home.”

Phinks stumbled when a heavy hand shoved him forward. He caught himself on Venny’s shoulder, the tall boy shrugging him off with a grunt. They slowly moved towards the open door. Declan trailed behind them, and from how he walked with his hands in his pockets, Phinks could tell he wasn’t worried about them bolting or rounding on him.

It was clear now that a direct exit to the outside wasn’t nearby. Instead, the doorway led them into another room, one much larger than the reeking closet they’d just come from. This room opened up into what looked like a gym of some sort. A wide ring stood in the middle, dominating all else with its stained, yellowed mat. Benches lined the space in ragged, crooked rows, and piles of garbage sat at regular intervals as if left behind from someone’s half-assed attempt to clean up. Bright lights streamed down from on high, flooding the place with enough raw, flickering white light that it blinded Phinks for a moment.

His nose, however, kept working just fine. Fresh air rolled into his lungs, sweeter than anything he could remember in recent memory. He breathed deeply despite the pain, rinsing the stink of the kennels from his mind as quickly as he possibly could.

“This is the training room,” Declan announced, his arms thrown wide as he spun around. “At night it becomes your stage. During the hours I’m here, this is your home. You train until you drop or I drop you. Piss me off or slack in any way and I make your life hell.”

Phinks raised a brow. More so than he already had? The others didn’t look at him when he tried to meet their eyes. They stared ahead, listening dutifully. The fucking robots.

He should have known not to get distracted. Declan clapped his hands loudly right behind Phinks’s head, startling him bad enough to make him jump. He whipped around and found the man close— too close. The other boys looked away. Venny sighed and Nile grinned. Iason… Iason stared at the floor, holding himself tightly.

“What the f… What do you want?” Phinks muttered, changing his tone quickly when he saw the way Declan clenched his fists. A bead of sweat rolled down his cheek. It was so hard to keep himself facing forward with someone like this at his back.

“A few things. This and that. We’re a big happy family here, punk. It’s only fair you open up so we can all get to know you.” Declan’s hands landed on his shoulders, squeezing and feeling him for muscle. “Tell me about yourself a bit…?” He trailed off, and Phinks blinked when he realized the man wanted his name.

“Phinks,” Nile chirped eagerly. Helpful little fucker. “He said his name was Phinks.”

“Ah, Phinks,” Declan echoed, letting go of his shoulders to move in front of him instead. “How old are you?”

Phinks bared his teeth at the floor, and then at Declan when he forcibly turned him around to face him. “Old enough to kill you,” he snarled. Like hell was he letting this fucker know anything more about him.

Declan sighed, rolling his eyes as he picked at a spot on his unshaven chin. “New dogs are always such a drag,” he muttered, his tone so level that Phinks couldn’t tell what he was thinking. “Give me a ballpark. Twelve? Fifteen? You’re tall, so you can’t be that young.” He grabbed Phinks by the hair and yanked his head back, jamming his thumb into his mouth to pry apart his teeth. Phinks was so shocked he couldn’t do much more than lock up.

As Declan stared inside, he hummed. “Good teeth for a beggar’s brat. Could do with more muscle, though. Your dad told me you were a brawler. A regular troublemaker in the slums. I’ve seen you around, punk. Made me curious. Hard to believe with a body like this, but I guess I am fond of defying expectations.”

Phinks choked on the fingers in his mouth, tearing his head away. Salt coated his tongue. His blood pounded in his ears, and despite the pain in his ribs and the eyes watching him, Phinks felt his fingers curl into fists. He was just an animal to this man, wasn’t he? Just some _dog_ —

His fist went flying towards Declan’s face before he could process the logic of attacking a man so much bigger than himself.

“Fuck yo—” Phinks roared, only to choke on his words entirely. His fist collided with Declan’s chest, but instead of feeling yielding flesh or hearing a grunt of pain, an explosion of agony greeted him instead. Phinks collapsed instantly, his knuckles bleeding as if pierced. What had he hit? What the fuck had he hit to make this happen? He forced himself to look up, but there was nothing there. Nothing that would hurt him like this.

There was nothing there but Declan’s smug, grinning face.

“Oh, I can see you’re a fighter through and through. Did that hurt?” he murmured, looking at him expectantly. “You’ve got balls, punk. I’ll give you that, but that just makes me want to see more. Let’s see what else the new dog can do, shall we?”

It was the only warning Phinks got before he was grabbed roughly by the arm and thrown into the ring. His ribs protested instantly, the pain so sudden, so sharp that he nearly crumpled into a heap at the man’s feet. His pride kept him standing, though. If nothing else he still had that.

“Come on,” Declan jeered. “Put your fists up. Fight me if you hate me so much.”

Phinks bared his teeth, shoving rational thought aside. He brought up his hands and tried to pretend this was like any other brawl out on the streets. He’d been in enough of them. He knew how to handle himself. Aim for the eyes, the groin, the throat. Declan was big but he had to be slow too. Phinks tucked his elbows to his chest to brace his ribs. This was going to hurt, but so long as Declan kept him company in that, he didn’t give a fuck.

Declan smiled as he took in Phinks. “Good stance. Pity you’ve got no power behind those fists, though.”

“Shut up!” Phinks swung out as fast as he could, pitching himself forward. He struck out and felt his fist hit flesh—Declan’s arm. A glancing blow. Declan was moving faster than Phinks gave him credit for.

He should have expected retaliation. He should have, but it still caught him a bit off guard when he saw a tattooed fist fly towards his head.

It was easy to dodge the first swing. Phinks saw it coming and it made it a simple thing to sidestep out of range. The second, third, and fourth… Not as much. They didn’t wait for Phinks to recover. Phinks took them to the chin, the shoulder, the cheek. Fast. This guy was fast, his blows raining down too hard and too quick to react. Pain blossomed like a bloody flower with every impact. When one struck his sternum, he collapsed entirely, wheezing as his lungs refused to work. That needle-like agony spread throughout his body.

All in all, maybe five seconds had passed.

A pair of fancy leather shoes walked into view. Phinks blinked. What? Slowly, he realized he was on the ground, his bruised cheek pressed against the mat. Five seconds. He couldn’t even last five seconds against this guy. His scalp burned as fingers locked in his hair, dragging him up to meet Declan’s eyes. The man was smiling. Phinks sucked in a lungful of air, choking on the sob that followed.

Declan took a knee at his side, smiling so brightly as he held Phinks’s head aloft and watched him tremble and bleed. “Are you crying?” he wondered, cocking his head as if he needed to look closer to tell for sure. He clicked his tongue. “Tears won’t get you a thing in this place. Best you learn that sooner rather than later, punk.”

Phinks couldn’t say anything. He closed his eyes just in time for Declan to throw his head down, bouncing it against the hard mat of the ring.

“You should be proud, though!” Declan announced, rising back up to his full height as Phinks curled himself into a ball. “You blocked the first one. Not many can say they managed the same. I hope you keep on surprising me. It’s in your best interest that you do.”

The man turned to address the watching eyes. Phinks fought to calm himself down. What the fuck was this guy?

“Since we’ve a new face today, I’ll go over the rules once more.” Declan moved as he spoke, taking up space with his hands and body. Phinks was forced to move before he got stepped on. “You are here to fight, not think. The better you fight, the longer you get to keep breathing. It’s in your best interest to train hard and be obedient. And if you think about disobeying me, well,” he laughed, looking down at Phinks as he struggled to sit up. “I’ll show you why that’s a bad idea.”

Before Phinks could blink, Declan was in front of him, tattooed hand tangled in his hair once more. Phinks was beginning to realize it was his preferred way of assuring his audience was listening.

“You’re not a person, punk,” the man whispered, his voice as sweet as rot. “Not anymore.”

His heart seized in his chest at the words. Declan stared at him expectantly. For what? For him to say something? To argue? Phinks licked nervously at his lips and nodded carefully, wincing when it lost him some hair. He didn’t feel like much of a person right now. That made it easier to stomach. Agreeing.

“Good boy,” Declan crooned, letting go of his head. He assessed the other boys standing around the ring, leaving Phinks on the ground as he moved to consider them carefully. After a moment, he seemed to make up his mind.

“Nile, you’re with me today,” he said, dismissing the rest with a jerk of his head. Phinks held his arm close to his chest and watched the others break away, moving to various parts of the training room like obedient little machines. Nile held his head high and smirked as he followed Declan over to one side of the ring. If Phinks didn’t know better, he’d think the little rat _liked_ the special attention. Declan picked up a pair of padded gloves, pulling them on and holding his hands up expectantly. The sound of flesh striking leather rung out, Nile grunting with each connecting hit.

Phinks narrowed his eyes. What the hell? Why wasn’t Nile bleeding?

There came a tugging on his sleeve. Phinks turned and found the runt from before at his side, a small kit in his hand that he held up like a peace offering. “Let me bandage that up for you,” the boy said, nodding to his bleeding fist. “If you get an infection you’ll get shot out back before you get any kind of medicine.”

Phinks hated how he couldn’t control his reaction to that. His shock was plain to see, drawing a dry laugh from the kid in front of him. With a flick of his fingers Phinks followed the other boy over towards a wall. There wasn’t much where they were going. Rusted equipment speckled the room at odd intervals, but there was a bench ahead and not much else besides. Phinks sat himself down on it roughly and held out his hand, glaring at the floor as the kid opened up his battered little kit and got to work.

It was clear right away that he knew what he was doing. Out came a roll of gauze, a bottle of disinfectant that took a few good shakes to yield anything, and a splint. Phinks winced as the stinging burn flared along the broken skin of his knuckles, and he gritted his teeth when calloused fingers probed his hand to check for broken bones.

A sigh fell from the boy’s lips. “Not broken,” he said, giving Phinks a careful smile. “You’re lucky.”

Phinks bit back a scoff, glaring harder at the ground between his feet. If he had a lick of luck to his name he wouldn’t even be in this situation. “Iason, right?” At least that’s what he thought the kid’s name was. Making friends wasn’t his strong suit. In a place like this though? He had a feeling he needed allies if he wanted to see daylight again.

The kid looked up with wide eyes. His concerned frown morphed into a wide, toothy smile in the time it took to blink. “You remembered,” he sighed, his voice a laugh. He looked back down at his work, bandaging up Phinks’s wounds with hands that seemed to know the movements intimately. “That’s… Yeah. I’m Iason.”

“How old are you?” Phinks asked, wincing as the gauze was tied tight around his wrist.

“Twelve.”

“How long have you been here?”

Iason stopped smiling. He let go of Phinks’s hand and kept his eyes pointed to the ground. The sound of the other boys punching and fighting and bleeding took over their conversation for a moment. Phinks watched Nile tear into Declan’s padded hands, his every strike practiced, strong, and deadly. Declan was beaming at what he saw him do.

“If you’re thinking about escaping, don’t.”

Phinks turned back and found Iason staring at him intently. There was no sign of the smile from before. Not even a trace of it. Iason stood up, dusting off his knees before he extended his hand for Phinks to take. “Why not?” he asked, taking it. No one was paying them any mind. The other boy was off in a corner hammering away at a punching bag despite the bruises livid along his bare back.

“It’s pointless. Declan owns this place. He owns you and he owns me.” Iason guided Phinks over to another corner and nodded at him to hold the punching bag there in place for him as he bound his knuckles with tape he carried in his pocket. “If you try to run, he’ll throw you to the dogs as a show opener. The _real_ dogs. At least if you stay you’ll have a fighting chance to stay alive.”

“There’s four of us and one of him,” Phinks hissed, eyeing Declan closely. Nile was dripping sweat now, his punches swinging wide as he began to tire. “We can take him!” He wasn’t even paying attention to the rest of them; it would be easy.

The pitying look that earned him from Iason made Phinks want to hit him first, though. Iason shook his head and sighed, flicking his fingers to get Phinks to hold the punching bag. “You think it’s that easy? You think others haven’t thought about that too?” He let his fist fly and Phinks grunted as the punching bag hit him in the chest. For such a runt, he knew how to hit hard. Iason blew upwards, mussing his messy brown hair from his eyes. “Declan’s not human. He’s not like us and he won’t hesitate to tear us apart if we tried to test that.”

Phinks looked down at his bleeding knuckles. Iason threw another punch, grunting at the impact. “Is that why it hurt so much?” he asked, avoiding the boy’s pitying look.

“We don’t talk about it,” Iason murmured, taking another swing and then another, faster and faster until his fists were moving so fast they blurred. Phinks braced himself against the bag, his body jolting with each strike. For as runty as the kid was, he sure as shit punched like someone twice his size. He’d been here awhile. What sort of shit had he gone through to need this kind of strength?

It took a few minutes for another lull to appear long enough for more conversation. Iason slowed his punches, his breathing labored and his face dotted with sweat. He leaned against the pummeled bag, wiping his brow. Despite the tape around his knuckles, his hands were beginning to bruise. Phinks, on the other hand, was numb from his fingers to his shoulders.

“You hit harder than I expected,” he grunted, letting go of the bag to sit on the bench again. He winced when the movement jostled his ribs. Breathing was hard, but it could be worse. “Why don’t we talk about Declan?”

Iason sighed. He glanced back at Declan and Nile off in their corner. They had stopped their exercises for the moment, Nile drinking from a bottle as Declan whispered in his ear about something. Phinks glared at them, at Nile. How was that little prick so comfortable at that fucker’s side? Didn’t he want to be free too? Kiss ass.

Phinks blinked when a hand waved in front of his eyes. Iason rolled his own once he had his attention back. “Declan doesn’t like being stared at,” he said. “Just so you know.”

Phinks scoffed, crossing his arms. He regretted it immediately when it put pressure on his ribs. “What the fuck gives?” he snarled, the pain making him angry. “Why are you all so willing to bend over for him?”

He wilted a bit beneath Iason’s glower. “We don’t have a choice, Phinks,” the boy enunciated. He hung his head and drew his fingers through his hair tiredly. “We belong to him now. If you try to fight it, you get hurt. Bad. Every one of us was like you when we first got here. We changed our minds pretty quick. You will too. That’s just how this place works.”

That was… That wasn’t going to happen. He wouldn’t just roll over. He forced himself to his feet and dragged Iason up again, tugging him back towards the punching bag. No. No way in hell was Phinks going to take this lying down.

“Go back to hitting this,” he ordered, not bothering to pay much attention to Iason rolling his eyes.

He held the bag and watched Declan closely out of the corner of his eye. If he wanted to get out of here, he’d need to learn. He’d need to know everything about this monster if he wanted to win against him. Iason was strong. Really strong despite his body type and age. If this training worked for him, then Phinks would do it to.

“Let me go for a bit after this,” he said, startling Iason from his perfect form.

“Phinks, you’re injured—”

Just a look was enough to keep Iason from continuing. Phinks rolled his shoulders and grinned through the pain. “It’s fine,” he said. So long as it got him closer to his goal, he didn’t mind a little hurt. “That’s the way this place works, after all.”

\---

Phinks learned quickly in this place.

Declan arrived roughly the same time everyday. After work, Iason had whispered during their usual sparring. After his meetings with the mob, Phinks assumed. The man slept here on occasion but he obviously had enough money to own this place and an actual home in the city, and there wasn’t a long list of occupations capable of footing a bill like that. No one had the balls to say it out loud, but Phinks could tell they all thought as much. They saw how he dressed, how much he bet on these games of his.

How he loaned to the poor in hopes of finding more dogs to hide away in his kennels.

Only one job paid so well in a place like Meteor City. Only one sort of person took their pleasure like this.

And Declan had it down to a fucking science.

Phinks hit the mat with his ears ringing. Pain raced up his hands and shoulders, burning and icy in equal measure. He rolled onto his side and tried not to puke, wishing he could do something to show Declan just how pissed he was. The man didn’t take him as a threat. Not even slightly.

“Such a let down you are,” Declan muttered, running his fingers through his hair as he looked down his nose at Phinks. “Where was that spunk from before? You can’t even dodge one punch now.”

“I don’t give a fuck if I impress you,” Phinks panted, trying to lift himself from the ground before Declan got impatient and kicked him again. His vision blurred as sweat dripped into his eyes. He wiped it away, hating how everyone’s eyes were on him.

“You should,” the man scoffed, leaning against the ropes fencing in the ring. “If you don’t impress me, you won’t impress a crowd. I don’t keep underperforming pets, punk. I make examples of them.”

It took conscious effort to swallow back the barb on his tongue. Instead, Phinks just tried to breathe, catching his breath as Declan lazily picked at his ear. It wasn’t as if Phinks weren’t trying; he was. He didn’t give a fuck about impressing Declan, but he knew well enough that strength was what was valued in this place. Not guts, not balls, and certainly not resistance. He was getting better slowly. It couldn’t be helped that it wasn’t fast enough for someone like Declan.

“Ready to disappoint me again?” Declan asked, pushing himself off the ropes. To add insult to injury, he hadn’t even bothered to wear the hand-pads like he did with the other boys. Too soft, he said in regards to Phinks’s punches. No need.

Phinks slipped back into his newly learned stance, raising his fists the way Declan taught him. He took a few deep breaths to center himself. The steady thwack of the other boys’ training provided a decent enough rhythm to follow.

Phinks drew back his fist and let it fly, only for Declan to look over his shoulder and move at the last second, sending Phinks falling fist first into the rope guarding the edge of the ring.

A peal of laughter sounded behind Phinks. “What gives, Nile?” Declan called out, grinning at Phinks’s current state when he bothered to glance behind him. “I told you I’m with Phinks today.”

Of fucking course. Phinks picked himself up and turned, seeing the fucking brat climb into the ring as if he owned the place. Venny was muttering off in his corner, shaking his head like he’d told Nile not to try whatever it was he was trying right now. Iason just kept punching, blocking it all out.

“Come on, let me show you how it’s done already,” Nile wheedled, gesturing at Phinks offhandedly. “I’ve been watching his soft-ass punches for hours now. You gotta realize he’s not worth your time.”

“Kiss ass,” Phinks hissed, prompting the asshole to turn and face him properly. “Miss your little one-on-one time that bad already?”

“What was that?” Nile strode up to him, so fucking confident despite the three inches of height Phinks had on him. He jabbed his finger at Phinks’s chest, his lips curled back into a snarl. “You think you can take me? You, some fuckin’ no-name Declan just dragged in?”

“Boys, boys,” Declan interrupted, moving between them to keep them from resorting to blows. Even though he was intervening, the grin on his face was as incendiary as lighter fluid. “You know pets should play nice with one another. Save that anger for the challengers’ dogs.”

“I’m not your fucking pet either,” Phinks said, but his words were buried beneath Nile’s.

“Let me challenge him!” the brat shouted, glaring daggers at Phinks. “Declan, come on! Let me fight him! Let me prove to you that I’m the best you’ve got!”

To Phinks’s horror, Declan seemed to consider it.

“I guess there’s no harm in it,” he drawled, assessing Phinks as if he were a piece of meat. “Bet that’d bring in a crowd— Seasoned champ Nile versus some no-name fresh from the streets. It’d make for an exciting opener, at least.”

Phinks stared at the man in horror. “There is no way in hell I’m fighting you for some sick fucks in an audience,” he hissed, hating how it made Nile smirk.

“Why? You talk a big game but can’t back it up?” Nile took a step closer, easily bypassing Declan’s hand. It wasn’t much of a deterrent anyway. Not when the man watched with glee-filled eyes. “Come on, coward. Let the rest of the world see how chickenshit you are! Fucking fight me!”

For as long as Phinks could remember, he’d had one hell of a temper. It didn’t matter what triggered it; it could be punks on the street or some old fucker who thought themself so fucking smart just because they were older. It didn’t matter much who it was or how they set him off, but once the fuse was lit, Phinks stopped seeing logic and just saw red.

Staring at the fucking pipsqueak and his shaved, scarred head, his beady black eyes and his pugnacious nose… Phinks wasn’t seeing red quite yet, but the world was tinged a shade darker, that was for sure.

Lucky for Nile, that was enough to get him what he wanted.

Unlucky for Nile was that getting what he wanted came with a price— Namely, Phinks’s fist in his face.

“Woah, woah!” Declan shouted, dragging Phinks off Nile before he could do more than break his nose again. Phinks ripped and struggled but Declan was strong, picking him up bodily to throw him across the ring and away from his precious favorite. “Let’s save the murder for the crowd, alright? Get up already, Nile. Stop that scowling; I’ve seen you take worse than that before.”

Nile spat out a hunk of blood and bared his teeth at Phinks like some kind of rabid wolf. He shoved himself to his feet, wiping at his nose viciously. “I’ll fucking tear you to pieces,” he promised. “Just you fucking wait.”

Phinks didn’t have the heart to tell him that with his nose broken, he hardly sounded threatening. He merely raised his middle finger at the kid as he lumbered back towards the medical supplies in the corner, barking at Iason to come help him. It left Phinks alone with Declan in the ring. Phinks turned his attention to the real beast before him. He had a feeling he wasn’t going to enjoy what came next.

“So, you _can_ show some backbone,” Declan mused after a moment of silent consideration. He strode up to Phinks and grabbed him by the shoulder, dragging him back onto his feet. “I’ll organize the match then, since this seems to be the only way I’ll see your true potential. That is, if there’s any even there to begin with.”

“What kind of fight is it?” Phinks asked, shaking off Declan’s hand. “Boxing? Caged?” He’d heard of mixed martial arts fights going down in the clubs the city hosted, but out here in the sticks, there was no regulation to be found.

Declan clapped Phinks on the shoulder with a laugh before lifting his hands in invitation. “The only kind of fight we fight out here is to survive, punk,” he delivered as he fell back into their previous sparring stance. He raised a brow and nodded at Phinks to go ahead and begin. “Best you figure out how to keep yourself alive any way you can. You’re on the fight circuit now. Your whole world’s about to change.”

Phinks scoffed and let his fists fly, letting the sound of flesh against flesh drown out any further conversation. If his life could change any more than it already had, then it could only get better from here.

At least, that was what he thought. Unfortunately for Phinks, Declan had a way of messing with expectations in the worst way.

The training became grueling. The nights shorter and shorter. Declan himself took over Phinks’s sparring sessions entirely unless Nile managed to weasel his way into a few for himself. Phinks’s knuckles bruised and ached. His eyes itched from lack of sleep. It made sense in a way that Declan would want him training to the max in preparation for the fight at the end of the week.

The only thing he didn’t understand was why his daily meal portions kept getting smaller and smaller until one day his plate hit the floor with nothing but a sliver of old bread on its metal surface.

“Don’t think about it,” Iason had whispered through the bars of the kennel. He looked at Phinks with pity these days. Expectant pity. “Just try to make do with it. You’ll get more if you win.”

The reason why became apparent by the time the Friday night fight arrived. Phinks tossed and turned on the blankets of his kennel, stomach churning with nothing more than acid and nerves to keep it full. His meal bowl had long been licked clean, his allocated water basin long drained of any relief it might have offered him. Declan opened the far door and let in the sound of voices and jeering alongside the light. Phinks closed his eyes to it, desperate to get it all over with already.

“Oh, what’s with that sour face?” Declan clicked his tongue and grabbed Phinks by the arm, dragging him from the kennel with ease. “Don’t tell me you aren’t excited! We’ve got a full audience out there waiting to see what you’re made of.”

Phinks’s vision spun as he stood up. His gritted his teeth and tried to breathe through it. “Not much,” he growled, glaring at Declan hotly. “Why the fuck didn’t you feed me if I’m expected to fight?”

“Why didn’t I feed you?” Declan scoffed, ruffling Phinks’s hair as he dragged him towards the door. “A better question might be why you think I’d waste food on a dog that’s gonna die anyway.”

What? He tried to wrench himself away from the man’s grip, but it was too late. Declan opened the door and threw him through it, letting the cacophonous din of the crowd disorient him quiet. Phinks froze like a deer in headlights, holding himself tightly as Declan took him by the shoulder and guided him up to the waiting ring. Large lights had been brought in to illuminate the space, their harsh white glow too much on Phinks’s weak eyes.

“Up you go,” Declan said just as he pushed Phinks into the ring. The man took up a microphone from the floor, ignoring Phinks now entirely for the sake of the ones watching.

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls,” Declan crowed, his horrible, scratchy voice magnified horrifically. He threw out his hand like a carnival barker, grinning his gold capped grin. “Welcome to the Ring of Death!”

A chorus of hoots and yells rose up in a wave. Phinks spotted Nile at the far end of the ring, smiling and waving and blowing kisses to his ardent fans as he climbed through the ropes. Unlike Phinks, Nile looked well fed. He began to sweat at the realization of who the fan favorite tonight was.

“In this corner we have our defending champion, Nile the Ravager! With a kill ratio of 23-0, he’s the pride and joy of the Cyclotron Gym!”

Phinks fought to keep from voiding his empty stomach. Nile smiled at him, waving his fingers as he licked his lips. Would the kid really kill him? Phinks had a feeling he might.

Declan seized Phinks by the shoulder again, turning him to face the crowd. “And in this corner, we have the gym’s newest recruit! A young street punk who cut his teeth in our fair Meteor City— Let’s hear it for Phinks!”

More jeers came than cheers. Declan grinned and pulled the microphone away from his mouth. “Everyone’s put their money on Nile, punk,” he whisper against Phinks’s ear. “This crowd isn’t here for you; they’re here to see you bleed out on the mat.” He pulled back and patted Phinks heavily on the back. “Try not to disappoint them, ‘kay?”

Phinks winced when Declan smacked his cheek next. He slapped away the man’s hand, his heart hammering in his chest. Nile leaned against the ropes, eyes locked on Phinks. He was going to die here, Phinks realized slowly. He was going to die if he didn’t take down Nile first.

“Now you’re getting it,” Declan purred, moving towards the ropes to slip down onto the floor. He brought the microphone aloft again, throwing his free hand into the air. “On the count of three, we’ll begin!” he announced, smirking at Phinks when he could only stare. “One! Two! Three!”

Nile let out a roar loud enough to be heard over the crowd, and Phinks whipped around just in time to see the kid charging at him like a bull. Instinct took over before thought could; Phinks threw himself out of the way, the crowd’s disappointment palpable.

“And here we see Nile hot out of the gate with his signature Bull Rush Charge!” Declan shouted, his voice fanning the flames of fervor in the audience until their excitement was stifling. Phinks wiped the sweat from his jaw and eyed Nile carefully. The kid was smaller than him, and he was fast, brutal, bloodthirsty… Up close and personal wasn’t what Phinks wanted to be right now, but given these charges of Nile’s, it was probably the smarter choice.

Nile charged him again.

Phinks threw himself to the side and swung out his fist when Nile caught himself in the ropes, using the momentary opening to hit the kid upside the head. It was a glancing blow. Nile took it easily, swinging out blindly and clipping Phinks in the jaw as he corrected his fucked up balance.

“First blood!” Declan yelled. “First blood goes to Nile and his Viper Punch!”

From the sound of it, Phinks had just made some people very rich. Good for them, he thought frantically, leaping back as Nile tried to hit him again. They were going to make a lot more money soon if he didn’t figure out a way to keep out of range of Nile. He raised his fists and swung out again, forgetting everything Declan taught him in the moment.

It really wasn’t any surprise that he missed.

“You fuckin’ loser!” Nile laughed, kicking out Phinks’s knee and pummeling him with both fists. Pain erupted in Phinks’s face, his chest, his shoulders. “You can’t fuckin’ beat me! Do you know how many I’ve killed in this ring?”

“I heard the fucking number like ten minutes ago,” Phinks spat, using his size advantage to throw the brat off him. He snagged Nile’s ankle and dragged him back over, laying into the kid’s back and spine and head until he eventually got kicked in the face. Phinks thudded to the ground and grabbed his mouth, spitting a tooth into his hand in surprise.

Nile wobbled as he stood up, panting and sweating already. His smile was still cocky though. “I’m gonna enjoy killing you,” he promised, taking a step closer. “Bet Declan will get me an even bigger bed after I do.”

Phinks dropped the tooth and scrambled to his feet. He put up his fists and tried to think. He didn’t want to kill Nile. Even if Nile wanted to kill him, Phinks didn’t want that on his hands. A dull white fog blurred his vision, threaded through with black. He wasn’t going to last long in his current state. He needed to end this fast. If he passed out in the ring, he had no illusions that he’d wake up again after.

“And now our fighters are staring one another down!” Declan’s voice filtered through the fog slowly, adding to the sickness plaguing Phinks’s stomach. “Let’s hear it for our champion! Tear him to pieces, Nile!”

Phinks wound his arm, hand on his shoulder as he fought through the pain. The pain in his mouth, his head, his stomach. His muscles ached as he wound. He might have torn something. Once. Twice. Three times. He could do this, he prayed, watching the boy charge him once more. He had to do this. Even if it killed him.

There was no way in hell Phinks was dying in a place like this, in front of people like these.

A sense of quiet fell over him, muting everything. The sound was smothered. The pain was dampened. Phinks closed his eyes and surrendered to it. He breathed in. He breathed out. Nile was in front of him. Nile was pulling back his fist to swing—

What was he doing? What good was any of this going to do? Would anyone care if he died here? Would anyone even know?

He tore open his eyes and let his fist fly. He could see only red, but he knew it would fly true.

Phinks hit Nile in the chest and promptly stopped thinking when the impact shattered his arm. The pain overtook everything, blotting out his vision, erasing the crowd, the ring, the lights— everything but the feeling of agony and the give of flesh and bone as his fist tore a hole through his opponent’s ribs.

For a moment, Phinks thought he went deaf. But no. No, there was the gurgle in front of him, some choked, wet sucking sound as Nile, dumb, kiss ass Nile, wheezed and stared at him with wide, panicked eyes.

Oh fuck.

The crowd began to scream and shriek and go wild the moment the kid hit the red-stained mat. Phinks threw himself down and tried to cover the wound with his shaking, bloody, broken hands. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he kept repeating, the blood coming too fast, the wound too big for his hands to staunch. “Help,” he whispered, his voice breaking easily beneath the onslaught of the crowd’s glee. “S-Someone help.”

A hand gripped him by the shoulder and tore him away from Nile. Phinks looked up and saw Declan. Declan with his microphone. Declan staring out at the crowd as he jeered and shouted, lifting Phinks’s mutilated hand into the air.

“Our new champion!” he screamed as Phinks watched Nile still. “Let’s hear it for Phinks and his Ripper Fists!”

“Phinks! Phinks! Phinks!” they all chanted. With every pounding shriek of his name, Phinks saw less. The light faded. The sound dulled. The hand on his shoulder turned brutal and Phinks heard Declan hiss to a lackey to drag him off the stage.

“And get a wheelbarrow for the scraps,” he said, jerking his head in Nile’s direction. “We’ve got another fight in ten minutes.”

The world went murky after that. Phinks knew he was moving, walking, being led through the roped off ring and back into the dark quiet of the kennels. He blinked furiously as his hand was seized, and though his bone was broken, he felt no pain. He didn’t feel much of anything right now.

“Fuck, you did a number on this,” the faceless grunt mentioned, fashioning some crude splint from an old piece of wood and binding it to Phinks’s arm. “Guess it goes to show, though. You did a fuckin’ number on that poor kid too. You’re a real monster, aren’t you?”

Phinks said nothing. He wasn’t sure he was capable of words anymore.

“Hey, what are you talking about?”

Phinks blinked. He lifted his head. He knew that voice.

The grunt scoffed, tying up the final knot on the improvised sling. “This fuckin’ beast here just punched a hole through the boss’s favorite,” he said.

Venny pressed himself against the bars of his kennel, his hollow face sunken and his tired eyes wide. “What?” he breathed, gaze flickering between the man and Phinks as if he wasn’t sure who to believe. “Nile’s… He fucking killed Nile?”

“Yep,” said the man, popping the last syllable on the word like bubblegum. He put his hand to the small of Phinks’s back and began to herd him towards his kennel. “Punched straight through the kid’s ribs. Fucker never stood a chance.”

“Oh my god,” Iason whispered, his face coming into view. Phinks tried not to look at him. He just folded himself into his too-small kennel and curled up into a ball, blotting out the world as much as he was able. The door rattled behind him, slammed into place and locked with the customary padlock.

 _Good_ , Phinks thought. He needed to be kept in here. He needed to be away from people with hands like these.

“Out you come, kid,” the grunt said, unlocking Venny’s kennel next. “It’s your time to shine.”

Clatter. Metal moving. A token protest. It faded into the dripping of the ceiling, into the stink of the mold lining the walls. Soon enough the kennel was silent but for the sound of Iason’s breathing. Phinks closed his eyes as tight as he could, cradling his arm to his chest.

“Phinks? Can you hear me?” Iason waited a moment but sighed when Phinks didn’t reply. There came a soft tinkling, almost like music. Like the chiming of bells in the wind. “You know… I’ve been here awhile. I know what you’re feeling. What that first time is like.”

Did he really? Phinks supposed he must. This was a room for killers, after all. Phinks’s hands had been the cleanest in the room. Until now.

“Hopeless. Sick. We all process it in our own ways.” Iason just kept talking. Phinks couldn’t begrudge him it. It was nice hearing a voice that wasn’t his, that wasn’t the mantra echoing between his ears or that… that wet, disgusting sound Nile had made when he realized his heart was in pieces. “Nile got cocky. Took it as something to take pride in. Venny… Well, he’s been here longest. Years. He won’t last long. I can tell. He doesn’t want to. Not anymore.”

Phinks licked his lips. He mouthed the question but couldn’t give voice to it. Somehow Iason understood anyway.

Iason sighed. “And me... I guess I…” He trailed off. “Do you believe in God, Phinks?”

He cracked an eye and glimpsed through the darkness to find Iason leaning against the side of his kennel, holding his necklace in his hand. The source of that chiming. Iason met his gaze. He smiled, and then he lifted the necklace up so he could see the small silver cross hanging from the center.

“Kinda stupid, right?” he whispered, his lips quirking self-consciously. “Declan only let me keep it after I killed my first opponent. It was something from my mom. She’s dead now. Dad sold me a few years later.”

His fist closed tight around the cross. “I don’t think I believe in God, Phinks. I don’t think faith is easy to have. This place beats it out of you fast, but I still keep this and pray anyway.”

For what? Phinks couldn’t think of anything to pray for. Not when he knew it’d be ignored. Asking for help and it falling on deaf ears anyway… It just added to the pain, didn’t it? He was in enough pain as it was. He couldn’t bear anymore.

Iason smiled when he looked at Phinks. A soft smile on his young face. “You have to hope for something,” he said softly. “Doesn’t matter what. Faith doesn’t do much good, but it means you’re trying. That you’re not giving up.”

Phinks closed his eyes as he gave in to the tears stinging them. There was a gentle rattle and the sound of shuffling. Phinks… He just wanted to go home.

“It’ll be okay,” Iason whispered. Phinks shook when he felt warm fingers brush the tips of his own. He had to be pressed up against the bars to reach him from over there. “We’ll get through this together, Phinks.”

Phinks closed his eyes as tight as he could, reaching for the warmth. For the one speck of comfort in this hell. There was blood on his fingers— dried, flaking, _Nile’s_. Iason didn’t care.

“Do you promise?” he breathed, his voice gone, his intent the only thing he had left.

He wasn’t sure there would be anything left of him once this was over.

“I promise,” Iason swore, and for now? For right now, Phinks let it be enough.

\---

The world didn’t stop just because Phinks was down an arm. If anything, it moved all the faster, spinning so hard that he had trouble keeping balance. His win earned him something from Declan; Phinks might call it respect if Declan were capable of such a thing.

Consideration was probably closer to the truth.

Phinks certainly felt considered when he hobbled his way into the training room come the next morning. Venny stared at him closely, his lips tight and his cheeks hollow. He’d won his fight and refused to speak after it. Had he and Nile been friends? Phinks didn’t have the balls to ask. He avoided Venny’s eyes and looked at the others instead. Declan and his goons were arguing over the bloodstained mat of the ring. Iason alone seemed to look at him without fear, huddled up on the bench and ostensibly waiting for him to come train. When Declan finally took notice of him, though…

Well, Phinks wasn’t quite sure what Declan thought of him now. He hadn’t bothered to come check on him in the kennels after the fight. Iason had said it wasn’t unusual, but Phinks couldn’t help but fear it regardless.

“There he is,” the man boomed, shoving past his men to approach Phinks like some kind of prized pet. “There’s the punk with a golden fist! How’d you sleep, champ? Did you like your new bed?”

Phinks’s stomach turned and he glared at the ground. Declan hadn’t bothered to come in, but his men sure as shit had. They’d yanked him from his kennel under the guise of checking his arm. When he’d been allowed to go back to sleep, he’d found his blankets swapped out with the mattress from a cot.

“It was Nile’s before, wasn’t it?” he muttered, prompting a laugh from Declan.

“What, did you expect me to buy a new mattress for a punk who’s only won one match?” Phinks stumbled a bit when a heavy hand landed on his head, ruffling his hair roughly. Declan snorted. “As if. Win a few more and we can talk about it, but as for now, leftovers are all you get.” The hand let up, allowing Phinks to lift his head. Declan stared at him with a smile, appraising him up and down. “There’s steel in you, punk. All we gotta do now is sharpen it.”

What he meant by that, Phinks couldn’t pretend to know. He longed to cross his arms but the sling was in the way. He couldn’t imagine training with Declan like Nile would, standing in the spot he stood and punching those hand blocks as if he were taking his place. Nile might have savored the attention, the praise, the thought that he was Declan’s favorite— Phinks though? He wanted nothing of the sort.

“Let’s make you deadly,” Declan murmured. “We’ll make you a champion in no time.”

The Phinks of a few weeks ago would have said something smarmy. Something biting and disrespectful. A _no thanks, go rot in hell_. The Phinks of right now just swallowed and kept his gaze on the stains littering the mat ahead.

“My arm is broken,” he said instead.

Declan raised a brow. “The other isn’t,” he said simply, shoving Phinks towards the center of the ring. “Get out of here!” he barked at the men watching. “I’ve got a sword to sharpen, so fuck off! I’ll call you when we’re through.”

The men scattered instantly, though not without muttering and swearing as they slipped under the ropes cording off the ring from the rest of the floor. Phinks watched them filter out, holding himself carefully. More mafia. Underlings, maybe.

A shove to his back broke him from his thoughts. He grunted, the blow jostling his arm. “Fuck,” he snarled, whipping around to glare at Declan. “What?”

“What?” Declan repeated, taking a step closer. His tone was mocking, incendiary. “You got mad last night, didn’t you? Got mad enough to put a hole in my favorite.” He shoved at Phinks again, knocking him back a few steps. Phinks made the mistake of looking down and saw the smeared, half-washed stains of blood from the night before. Declan laughed. “Get mad, punk. Let me see that power you’re hiding again.”

See it again? Phinks glared at Declan fiercely, sweating a bit when he realized he didn’t have much space left to evade. “What are you talking about?” He scowled, baring his teeth when Declan took another step closer.

“You think I didn’t see you use nen last night? You’ve got talent, punk. Talent you don’t know the first thing about, and like hell am I gonna waste an opportunity like this when it lands in my lap.” Declan turned and looked over his shoulder. “Iason!” he barked, jolting the kid from his thoughts. “Get your ass up here!”

Phinks looked between the grinning Declan and Iason as he slowly climbed into the ring, apprehension dripping from his every move. “Nen? The fuck is nen?” He had no fucking idea what was going on. He had a feeling he was going to hate it when he figured it out.

Rolling his eyes, Declan waved impatiently at Iason to come closer. The boy did, too conditioned to ignore the order. “Fuckin’ street rats,” he spat, grabbing Iason by the arm once he was at his side. “Never know shit even when it bites you on the ass.”

A cry sounded from Iason when Declan’s grip turned tight. He looked up at the man who owned him, shaking hard enough that Phinks could see it from across the ring. A sick feeling took root in the pit of Phinks’s stomach.

“Go on,” Declan jeered, throwing Iason at Phinks. “You already killed one of my dogs. One more won’t hurt me. It’ll be all worth it if it gets you killing like you did last night.”

Iason stumbled and hit Phinks in the chest, falling to his knees at his feet. He stared up at Phinks with wide, petrified eyes. He had no idea why this was happening. Declan had never tried this sort of thing before, and Phinks fared no better in understanding why he chose to do it now.

But Phinks didn’t need to understand it to reject it. “I’m not doing that,” Phinks breathed, both to Iason and Declan alike. He reached down and tried to lift Iason to his feet. He managed to get Iason halfway up before Declan grabbed Iason by the shoulder and threw him back onto the mat. “Leave him alone—”

A fist knotted itself in the collar of Phinks’s shirt, dragging him onto his toes and choking him. The teasing pain of invisible needles scratched the underside of Phinks’s chin. Phinks froze, not even daring to breathe. How close were they? If he moved… if he moved an inch, would Declan slit his throat?

“Are you really in any position to tell me _no_?” The words were hissed, and Phinks tilted his head up, baring his throat in his attempt to keep from touching the invisible needles protruding an inch or so from Declan’s knuckles. “You could be my favorite, punk. I could make you a fucking star. Kill the sad runt and show me your nen!”

“Fuck… you,” Phinks said through clenched teeth, even as Iason let out a choked, shocked sound at their feet. “Fuckin’ kill me. I’m not hurting him, you sick fuck.”

Declan narrowed his eyes and bared his teeth, the tendons in his neck sticking out as he tensed. It should have been warning enough that pain was coming, but Phinks still felt unprepared to counter when Declan threw him bodily across the ring.

“You gonna fight me then?” Declan demanded, his voice threading in and out of perception as pain—hot, brutal pain—washed over Phinks in a wave. He crumpled where he fell, his broken arm more than jostled this time. “Get the fuck up.”

Fucking insane. Declan was fucking insane. What was he expecting Phinks to do? He didn’t know how the fuck he killed Nile. He had no fucking idea how to do it again, if he even could. Phinks spat and tried to ease himself onto his knees, his broken arm supplying him with a steady stream of agony to hamper him every step of the way. He glared daggers at Declan. Given the way the man acted, he knew it was about as much rebellion he could give before he got kicked in the gut or something.

“I don’t even know what the fuck you’re talking about,” Phinks snarled, and he saw right away that Declan didn’t like that one bit. The man narrowed his eyes dangerously, staring straight through Phinks as if he were dirt scuffing his boots.

“I don’t need you to know shit. You don’t need to _think_ so long as you do as you’re told.” Declan turned his stare to Iason still cowering on the mat. His lips curled back into a grin that sent Phinks’s heart pounding. “You got mad last night. Maybe if I kill your little friend, you’ll get mad now?”

Iason jolted, his wide, frightened eyes darting to meet Phinks’s. Phinks threw himself to his feet, fighting the pain threatening to down him. “Why?” he wheezed, stumbling forward when Declan began to move towards Iason with intent. “Why the fuck would you do that?”

“Why?” Declan snorted, stomping on Iason’s hand when he tried to scramble backwards. The boy let out a choked cry, freezing in place as some sick, heavy aura began to fill the ring. “Why not? Why wouldn’t I get rid of a runt to feed a real winner? You could be great, Phinks. You could be my next star. It’s just good business,” he said breezily. He looked over his shoulder as he drew back his hand. His eyes met Phinks’s.

They were goading him; they dared him to do something about it.

And Phinks? Phinks saw red.

He didn’t process he was moving until he noticed the stink of Declan’s cologne in his nose and the solid mass of his shoulder against his own. Phinks gritted his teeth and lost himself in the churning, roiling anger, shoving with all his might. Declan let out a grunt. His feet skidded across the mat. Phinks threw the man against the rope fencing the ring, body alight with power, cheeks flushed with fury. He planted himself in front of Iason and glared at Declan.

Declan looked over Phinks’s shoulder, staring at Iason in silence. Phinks panted, catching his breath as Iason held himself tightly and shook. Something seemed to click because Declan looked back to Phinks, his teeth bared in a cruel, knowing grin.

“What is this, punk?” he asked silkily, using that fucking voice of his, that sickly sweet voice that always, always, _always_ preceded something horrible. “You show me your fangs but hide them a second later? For this fucking runt, even?”

“Leave him alone,” Phinks hissed.

Declan shook his head, clicking his tongue like he always did before a beating. “You win one little match and you think you own the roost,” he said, voice dripping with disappointment, with humor. “You kill my favorite fighter and think that makes you the next cock of the walk.”

He drew back his hand faster than Phinks could see, but somehow Phinks still sensed it coming. The punch cut through the air past his cheek, the dodge slight but still a dodge. Something cut at his skin, though. Something sharp and invisible. Declan’s needles? It had to be. Phinks rushed to make sense of it before Declan threw another his way.

But another blow didn’t come. Not right away at least. Declan caught himself, a bit unbalanced by the unexpected miss. He stared at his fist and then he stared at Phinks. “Did you just… Did you just _dodge me,_ punk?”

If Phinks wasn’t standing over Iason, he would have backed down then and there. He didn’t want to. It was instinct. Self-preservation. That little voice in the pit of Phinks’s stomach telling him to _run, hide, beg_ when he was in over his head. He stared death in the eye and found himself sweating. He closed his hands into fists, knowing they wouldn’t do any good for him here.

But he still nodded.

“ _Phinks_!” Iason begged, cut off by Declan’s glare. The boy cowered behind Phinks and trembled, too conditioned to speak.

“You’ve got balls, punk,” Declan said slowly. Begrudgingly proud? Annoyed? Phinks couldn’t tell. For the life of him he couldn’t read Declan at all.

He startled horribly when Declan brought his fingers to his mouth and whistled, the sound piercing and loud as it echoed through the room. A second later, the door opened and in came the men from before, grumbling and cursing under their breaths as they took in the scene playing out on the ring ahead.

“What’d you need, boss?” one called, picking at his ear with disinterest.

Declan smiled, nodding towards Phinks and Iason. “Grab them,” he ordered, turning his back on them as he climbed out of the ring. “Take the runt to his kennel.”

Iason relaxed but Phinks didn’t. The men sighed and grumbled and streamed into the ring, grabbing Iason easily when he didn’t put up a fight. Phinks, though… He was still waiting to hear where he was to be taken. He shook off the hands that landed on his shoulders, at least for a minute or so until enough of them surrounded him. It only took one shove to his broken arm to have him behaving then.

“What about this one?” someone called, asking the question Phinks longed to have answered.

“The hole.”

“Shit, kid, what’d you do?” the long-haired grunt whistled as he shoved Phinks forward and through the ropes of the ring.

“Don’t envy you at all,” said another, clicking his tongue.

Phinks began to sweat. The fuck was the hole? He struggled against the hands holding him, resisting as much as he could. It didn’t do him much good. Every jerk of his shoulders hurt his arm more, to the point that he knew it wouldn’t heal properly if he didn’t get it looked at. The men dragged him after Declan, chasing the man’s back as he led them through a door and past the kennels and into an area he’d never seen before.

A storage area, maybe. The scent of disinfectant washed over him in a sickly wave. Declan paused at the end of the room, made all the more monstrous by the flickering fluorescent lights and long, creeping shadows cast by the rickety shelves lining the low walls. The men threw Phinks to the ground at Declan’s feet, forcing him to kneel. Sweat prickled the back of his neck. What the fuck was happening?

He reared back when Declan settled into a crouch in front of him. “Don’t you even think of running from me,” Declan hissed, grabbing him by the hair to jerk him back into place. “You’re a fucking dog, punk, and you don’t even seem to realize it. I don’t abide disobedient dogs, no matter how much money they make me.”

Phinks couldn’t stop blinking. The alternative was looking Declan in the eye, and he found he couldn’t bring himself to do that. Not for long, at least, and not at this close a range. He looked desperately around, taking in the room. What hole? What was about to happen to him?

The hand in his hair clenched tightly, yanking at his scalp brutally. “Look at me,” Declan ordered, only relaxing his grip when Phinks obeyed. “You fucking look at me when I’m talking to you. You hear me?”

“Yes,” Phinks wheezed, vision bleeding black as the pain swelled.

“Yes, _sir_.”

Phinks blinked, his eyes beginning to water. “Yes, sir,” he gritted, nearly spitting it between his teeth.

“Good.” Declan threw down his head and stood back up. Phinks wiped at his eyes with his good arm, trying to watch as the man yanked a shelf away from the wall. Buckets and bottles and countless other things rained down onto the floor. Glass shattered. Metal banged. Phinks jumped but Declan didn’t fucking care. He shoved the shelf out of the way, revealing a rusted hatch.

Ice filled Phinks’s belly.

_The hole._

“You piss me off, punk,” Declan grunted, wrenching open the rusted door with a furious yank. The hinges screeched like nails against glass. Phinks wilted under Declan’s glare. “You piss me off so fucking much. I’m going to make a fighter out of you. A damn good fighter, no matter what I have to do to see it happen.”

He lifted his arm and Phinks looked past him, seeing the dank, dark crevice beyond the hatch door. All that lay within was a single stained, ripped blanket.

“Get in.”

Phinks looked up, fear locking his limbs in place. “What?”

Declan bared his teeth. “Get. In.”

Every fiber of Phinks’s being rejected the very idea of stepping one foot into that small little hole. He stared at Declan in horror, unsure of what to do. Beg? Even if he could bring himself to do that, would it do any good? He swallowed and shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut when Declan grabbed him by the hair again. He stifled a shout as he was dragged towards the hole. Fighting was met with a kick to the ribs. If he cried… If Phinks cried, Declan didn’t give a shit.

The hole stank of fear and piss. Made of metal as it was, it chilled Phinks’s skin the second he was shoved inside. He kicked and fought the hands cramming him into the tiny space, but all it got him was stabbed and jabbed by invisible needles for the effort he put into trying.

“P-Please don’t,” he breathed, staring up at Declan through the small opening. “Please. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, punk” Declan spat. “Get angry.”

The last thing Phinks registered was the gleam of Declan’s grin before the world quickly went black. The sound of a lock fastening in the darkness punctuated his panic, and after that, Phinks stopped thinking for awhile.

\---

He wasn’t sure how long he stayed in there. Days. Weeks. He tried to keep count of the times his meals came, but he couldn’t. It seemed too random, too purposefully infrequent. There was no carefully crafted schedule anymore. There was no attempt made to keep him fed but hungry, alive but weak. When food came—if food came—it came in too small a serving to do him any good.

The beatings though.

The beatings were things he could count on no matter what.

Declan came to visit, and every visit left Phinks with more bruises, more breaks to his hands, his feet, his nose. Phinks knew to expect pain when he heard that familiar screech of metal against stone. He knew to curl up and bite his lip when that familiar stink of cheap cologne rolled in on the draft just outside the door.

“Should I tell you of your little friend today?” Declan would say by way of greeting, the light behind him too bright to look at. He’d kick Phinks or stomp on his fingers, forcing him to do it anyway, to look at the monster hovering over him in the light. “Should I pass on a message for you?”

It was always the same.

Until it wasn’t.

Phinks knew something was different the moment Declan drew open the screeching, rusted door. It didn’t stop him from curling in on himself like normal, or hiding his head in his poorly healed arms. The sling had come off days before, the splint long before that. Despite Declan’s desire to make him something he wasn’t, he hadn’t bothered to give Phinks’s body much chance to heal before laying into him with more injuries.

“Mornin’, punk,” the man sing-songed from on high. “Miss me?”

Phinks said nothing. Usually Declan punctuated his greetings with blows, not silence. He heard the rattle of a tray as it was set beside his head. The scent of bread filled his nose. His eyes opened like a reflex, his empty, aching stomach churning back to life from just the barest glimmer of food.

“Hungry?” Declan asked, nudging Phinks’s spine with his boot. It startled Phinks, and Declan laughed. “Bet you’re fucking starving, aren’t you?”

Was he really here to feed him? Phinks couldn’t trust Declan, he couldn’t trust him even a little bit, but the tray was right there. He slowly lifted his head, his hand reaching for the thick hunk of bread resting on the flimsy plastic. His mouth felt too dry to swallow, but he’d manage somehow.

His fingertips brushed the edge of the tray before Declan swiped it from him with another laugh. Phinks collapsed on the floor of the grimy metal box, shaking from the effort. From the denial. Stupid. He shouldn't have gotten his hopes up.

“Aww, did I hurt your feelings?”

Phinks covered his face with his hands, expecting pain, expecting to hurt for assuming he’d be allowed to eat. He had been right to think this time was different; Declan had figured out a new way to torture him. Something that hurt more somehow than the countless blows and the aching burn of broken hands.

A warm hand landed on his shoulder. Phinks flinched, but the hand just gripped him tight and held him in place. “Do you want to eat?” Declan asked gently, so gently that it had to be a trap. Another trick. “Do you want me to forgive you for being a bad, bad dog?”

It had to be a trick. It just had to be.

Declan sighed when he stayed quiet. “Do you know how long you’ve been in here, Phinks?”

Phinks stiffened at the sound of his name. He hardly recognized it anymore. Not after so long of hearing only _punk_ or _bitch_ or _mutt._ He shook his head slowly, hiding his face, refusing to let the man see him like this any more than he already had.

“You’ve been in here for two months, Phinks.”

Phinks stopped breathing. Two…? Two months? How… How was that possible? He peeked at Declan through his arm, breathing again now but harder, faster, too fast. The world rushed past his ears like pouring rain. Two months. He’d been in here for two months and—

Declan slapped his cheek hard. Phinks locked up, the pain a reminder that this body wasn’t his, that every breath he took was a gift. Stop wasting it. Stop breathing like that. No air, none for him, he didn’t deserve it. He met Declan’s eyes and willed himself to hold back on the panic. It wouldn’t get him anything here. Not with a man like this.

“That’s better,” Declan praised, and that alone made the panic fade away. “Don’t do that again. You understand me?”

Phinks nodded.

“Good boy. Now, get up. We’re gonna get you some food, alright?”

Phinks rushed to comply. He rushed to follow Declan out of the hole, but his limbs weren’t his own anymore. They creaked and ached, his legs refusing to straighten after so long bent. He stumbled and fell against a shelf, nearly sending the whole thing crashing down on top of him. Declan swore and grabbed him under the arms, shaking him until he got himself under control.

“Such a hassle you are,” he muttered, giving Phinks a careful once-over. “I’m willing to forgive you, Phinks. I’ve put too much effort into you to stay mad. I’ll forgive you for all the bad things you did to deserve this, but you have to do something for me first.”

“What?” he mouthed, his tongue too dry to put sound to the question.

Declan smiled. He reached behind his back and pulled a thick sack from his belt. “You’ll see,” he said, opening it up and shoving it over Phinks’s head. The darkness swelled and Phinks’s stiffened, lost again in that dank, moldering hole. He tried to keep breathing even as Declan took him by the shoulder and led him away from the shelves.

After so long in the hole with no light, little food, and nothing but the company of Declan and his own thoughts, Phinks had to struggle to remember the layout of the building. His mind raced and his feet tripped over flat cement. Declan pulled him through a door and the temperature rose, making Phinks sweat. The stink of disinfectant and bodies rose up in a wave, thick and cloying through the musty sack. A dull roar sounded somewhere ahead.

Were his ears ringing again?

And then they stopped. Phinks shuffled forward. A door stood in front of him. The roar was louder. The source was just beyond it.

“You want to make me proud, don’t you?” Declan whispered, his voice right against Phinks’s ear suddenly.

Phinks trembled and nodded, nodding so hard his entire body shook with it.

What felt like an arm reach past Phinks. “Good boy,” came Declan’s voice just before the world shattered into sound.

Screams, jeers, and cheers deafened Phinks in an instant, and it was only thanks to Declan that he was able to walk into the midst of it all. The man held him by the shoulders, pushing through a thousand bodies until Phinks’s knees bumped into a platform. _Get up_ , Declan must have shouted, but Phinks couldn’t hear him. His heart was hammering in his chest. His hands sweated and slid against the familiar rope of the ring, and when Phinks stood again, he knew very well where he was right now.

The panic was instant. The fear, the sickening anxiety— It all came rushing back. Phinks stood stock still and lost himself in the memory of the last time he’d been up here, these screaming, bloodthirsty people watching like they were now. His hands felt tacky with blood. His own, or Nile’s?

He wasn’t ready for the sack to be ripped off his head, but Declan did it anyway.

The lights were too bright. Phinks couldn’t see—couldn’t breathe. The air was churning, loud, deafening. Screams and jeers rained down on him, pelting him like hail. A fight. It was a fight. Who was he fighting? His breath came short; his palms began to sweat. He would die if he didn’t do something.

“Ladies and gentleman, have we got a show for you tonight!” Declan declared, his voice somehow coming from every angle, from every side. Phinks covered his ears with his bleeding, ruined hands, choking back on the urge to scream. What was happening? Who was he meant to fight?

Declan’s hand clapped Phinks on the shoulder, nearly making his knees buckle beneath him from the sudden weight. “True to my word, we’ve got a once-in-a-lifetime event for your viewing pleasure!” He grinned as he looked at Phinks. “Place your bets wisely, folks! I have a feeling this will be one fight you won’t be able to look away from!”

“Who?” Phinks whispered, shaking from the effort of keeping upright. “Who is it?”

Declan pulled the microphone away from his mouth. “Why?” he asked. “You scared?”

Before Phinks could summon a response, the microphone was back. The audience took over Declan’s attention entirely. “Let’s get on with it!” he shouted, his voice echoing like thunder. “In this corner, we have the infamous Ripper Fist Phinks! Fresh from his two month break and ready to rip, rip, rip!”

The audience screamed in delight, chanting _rip, rip, rip!_ over and over again as if it were something to praise. Phinks felt like vomiting. Who was it? Who was he supposed to fight? He stared at Declan, waiting for him to announce it. He didn’t have to wait long; Declan always gave the audience what they wanted.

“And our biggest mystery of the night, the reveal you’ve all been waiting for,” he teased with a flourish of his hand. “The opponent of the night, the lucky dog to test his might against our Ripper…”

The suspense was absolute agony. Phinks searched the ring, waiting for the challenger to enter. He could see vague movement in the crowd— Someone being led forward? It was so hard to see in this light. The faces were shadows. Demons and monsters watching him from below.

The shrieks built into a crescendo as a figure finally was thrown into the ring.

“He’s scrappy, he’s small, but you all know how hard a punch he throws— Ladies and gentlemen, let’s give it up for the Demon Imp himself, Iason!”

Phinks’s heart stopped. The audience roared. Declan shook Phinks by the shoulder, but Phinks couldn’t look away from Iason picking himself up off the blood-stained mat. He was so much smaller now. Gaunt cheeks, hollow eyes. Iason swayed when he stood, clutching something in his hand that glinted in the overbearing lights of the arena. For some reason Phinks saw a cross. But no… It wasn’t a cross.

A knife. Iason held a knife in his hands.

“Due to the weight-class difference in this match-up, it’s been recommended by many a concerned fan to grant Iason a handicap!” Declan recited like he actually fucking cared about any of this. “Now, without further ado, let’s—”

Phinks rounded on Declan before he could say the fucking words. He latched onto his arm and yanked the microphone away from his mouth. “There is no way in hell I’m fighting Iason,” he hissed. When he saw how the crowd roiled with anticipation, he bared his teeth too for good measure. “I won’t fucking do it!”

Declan kept his smile up even as he sank his fingers into the meat of Phinks’s shoulder. “You think you have a choice, punk?” He snorted, throwing Phinks easily to the side. He caught himself on the rope fence and watch Declan bring the microphone up to address the crowd once more. “Sorry about that, folks! Ripper Fist Phinks is raring to get started! So! Without further ado, let’s see some blood!”

A bell sounded above the ring and Phinks made the stupid mistake of looking up. Iason let out a shout and charged at him, giving Phinks only the barest warning to move. It wasn’t hard to dodge. Iason was moving half the speed he usually commanded, his wide eyes blank and unfocused. Phinks side-stepped the boy and watched him bounce off the ropes. Iason nearly toppled over as he tried to find his balance again.

“Iason!” Phinks cried, dodging the kid again when he tried for another attack. Phinks reached out and grabbed the kid by the shoulder, desperate to see some sign he even recognized who he was attacking. “It’s me!” he tried saying. “Calm down! I’m not going to hurt you—”

The whistle of the blade was loud as it swiped through the air, taking off some of Phinks’s hair. Phinks threw himself back in shock.

“Oh, so close!” Declan announced, his disappointment echoed in the crowd’s boos. Phinks glared at the speakers, too disoriented to seek out Declan specifically. He wasn’t going to put up with this shit. He wasn’t going to kill the one friend he had in this hellhole. Not for shitbags like these.

“Phinks!”

Phinks looked at Iason. The kid was panting in the center of the ring, clutching his knife in a white-knuckled hand. Everything about him was sickly. He stared at Phinks with fevered eyes. “Come fight me,” he shouted. “Get over here and do it!”

“What do you mean, fight you?” Phinks asked, throwing his hands up in the air. “We’re fucking friends, aren’t we?”

Iason closed his eyes like he was in pain. He hung his head and bit his lip before charging at Phinks yet again. This time, Phinks didn’t bother dodging it. He planted his feet and caught Iason, letting the kid ram himself into his shoulder and bounce off like a ball against a brick wall. Iason stumbled but kept his balance this time. He wheezed, breathing so hard that he seemed on the verge of passing out.

“Please,” Iason whispered. “I don’t want to kill you like this.” But he would if Phinks didn’t put up a fight. He didn’t have to say it for it to be understood. He lifted his knife again and swiped sloppily. Phinks lifted an arm to take the strike so his throat didn’t have to.

“And Iason has first blood!” Declan shouted, his voice a dull roar overtop the crowd’s excitement. Phinks covered the cut with his hand, gritting his teeth at the pain. It wasn’t deep, and the knife was about as dull as a sharpened spoon. Declan wanted them to tear each other to pieces as painfully as possible, and it was clear to see who he put his odds on winning.

If he really wanted Phinks dead, he would’ve bothered to give Iason a knife that could do more than scratch.

Phinks grabbed Iason by the wrists, grappling with him as the crowd went wild. Even with the knife it wasn’t fair. Iason was too small, and though Phinks was weak and hungry and sick, it took no effort at all to throw Iason to the ground. The boy gasped and grunted, coughing violently in search of the air knocked from his lungs. His face reddened and he rolled onto his side, clutching his knife in fingers that wouldn’t—couldn’t—stop shaking.

“Just give up,” Phinks begged, standing over him with clenched fists. “Just forfeit. Tap out. _Something_. I won’t kill you.”

Iason shook his head, his smile as weak as the rest of him. He slowly sat himself up, the hand holding the knife resting on his knee. His other stayed back, propping him up from behind. “Won’t work,” he wheezed, his brown eyes rimmed with red. “They don’t— No forfeits. Allowed. Here.”

Phinks grabbed Iason by the front of his shirt, hefting him to his feet. “No,” he breathed, shaking his head like a dog ridding itself of flies. “No, no, no, we can find a way. Don’t give up on me. We’ll keep fighting until we think of something. They have to get tired of it at some point. We can wear them out! This isn’t finished yet!”

The audience didn’t seem to agree. They stomped their feet and clapped their hands, screaming as one, “Finish him! Finish him!”

“Shut the fuck up!” Phinks yelled at them, seething to the point of tears. He snarled at the faceless crowd, his fists tightening in Iason’s shirt. A small hand touched his wrist. Phinks stiffened.

“They’re right,” Iason gasped. “Phinks. They’re right.”

Slowly Phinks turned his head to look at the runt in front of him. “No.” Phinks shook his head, his vision blurring, his breath hitching. Just a runt, a young kid, _a brat._ “No, I can’t—”

Iason closed his eyes and let his knife fall from his hand. He hung limply from Phinks’s grip. “It’s fine,” he breathed. “Just do it. You were always going to last longer than me.”

The only reason he’d lasted this long was because of Iason. Phinks tried to say that to him. He tried to argue. His lips were cracked, though. His mouth too dry.

“He broke something, Phinks,” Iason coughed, blood spilling past his lips. “Before this. In me. It hurts too much.” He opened his eyes and smiled at Phinks. “I think… I think I’m going to die anyway.”

The world blurred. All Phinks could see was the messy shock of brunette hair. All he could hear was the sound of their breathing and the plink plink plink of the dripping pipe in the kennels. But it wasn’t water, was it? It was blood, dripping from Iason’s mouth, down his chin, adding to the stains coloring the old, soiled mat.

Iason reached out and took Phinks’s fist in his hand. He pulled it from his shirt and moved it over his heart.

 _Warm_.

“Just do it.”

Iason closed his eyes and wrapped his fingers around the cross hanging from his neck.

Phinks took back his fist and choked on a sob as he wound his arm.

Once.

There was mercy in this, he thought. It would be quick.

Twice.

Declan shouted something through his microphone.

Three times.

And then Phinks saw red.

\---

Dripping. Hot. Phinks fell to his knees.

“Don’t _ever_ tell me no again, _”_ Declan whispered in his ear as he lifted Phinks’s bloodied fist into the air.

The crowd screamed.

Iason…

Iason stayed quiet.

\---

Time held no meaning after that.

Fights came. Injuries came. Phinks lost count of how many of either he suffered through. His knuckles scarred over, his fingers broken and healed and broken again so many times that they were a mess of knobbly bone and ragged nails.

Inside and out, he was broken. Cobbled together from spit and spite. His dreams knocked him down and the pain built him back up come morning. It was a routine he was more familiar with than his own face. He hadn’t seen a mirror in half a decade, but he still grew regardless. His voice deepened and his cheeks were rough with stubble. What did he look like now, Phinks wondered sometimes in the dead of night. He was sure no one would recognize him anymore. Not who he once was, at any rate. He hadn’t been that kid in years.

Phinks wasn’t sure if he even remembered who he had been back then. Certainly no one he could ever be now. He’d bled too much in this place to think himself whole.

As he grew, so did the cage.

And with the cage, the crowd.

“Are you ready for the next match tonight?” Declan asked, leaning against the door of Phinks’s newest kennel. It was larger now, but the feeling of it was the same. He’d earned himself a pillow and a proper mattress, a few blankets from all the wealth he’d brought Declan over the half a decade it’d been since he got here. “I’ve got a lot riding on you. You better not fuck it up.”

He always had a lot riding on Phinks. It’d been years since he’d put any sort of fear in Phinks’s abilities falling through, and these pep talks of his all blended together in the end. Phinks rolled onto his shoulder and put his back to Declan, too tired to pretend he was listening. The thin chain of his necklace tinkled as he moved. The tiny cross was warm against his skin.

“Hey, are you listening to me, punk?!”

Phinks grunted. Declan scoffed and probably rolled his eyes. “Fuckin’ brat. There are mafia heads in the audience tonight, so you better not pull anything smart,” he said threateningly. He banged his hand on the bars of Phinks’s cage. “You hear me? The top brass in the top gangs are comin’ to see you fight! One of them might want to buy your sorry ass and take you off my hands. That is, _if_ you make a good enough impression.”

“Like you’d ever sell your cash cow,” Phinks muttered. Everyone knew he didn’t have any other fighter here who brought in as big a crowd as Phinks. It made it hard as fuck to find opponents anymore, but that wasn’t Phinks’s problem to worry about.

“I fucking might if you keep up this attitude,” Declan snarled, rattling the bars of the cage. He seethed for a minute or two, but when Phinks failed to rise to the bait, he let out a hiss of breath and forcibly relaxed. “But who would take someone like you?” he muttered next. “Just a dumb mutt. That’s all you are.”

Phinks closed his eyes to hide his wince. Declan scoffed and pushed off the bars. There was the sound of something crinkling, and then Phinks jolted when something cool struck his shoulder. He opened his eyes and caught the thing before it could roll off the cot. A bottle of water?

“The hell is this for?” he asked, running his thumb along the wrinkled and torn label wrapped around the middle of the bottle. Usually their water didn’t come in bottles like this, but old jugs or glass jars scavenged from the dumps nearby. One time when he’d done something particularly annoying, Declan had given him water in a hole-riddled plastic shopping bag.

Water from a bottle was a luxury he’d never been afforded before.

“Just drink it, punk,” Declan ordered, stomping his way towards the door. “I don’t need you passing out from dehydration in front of a full house.”

Phinks rolled his eyes as the door opened and then closed in a resounding slam. The light left with Declan, and Phinks stared at the bottle as his eyes adjusted. He had only a half hour maybe to get ready for the fight. Declan would be out there riling up the audience with the smaller scuffles, the fights between the kids still learning how to sharpen their teeth on something harder than a streetside brawl.

One of the kids was missing from the kennels. Phinks had to wonder if that kid was going to come back.

Probably not. Their luck wasn’t that good.

He set the bottle of water on the ground and stretched his arms, wincing when a knot in his shoulder pulled tight. If he won this match— Phinks snorted to himself. _If_ . It was obvious he’d win. He always did. _When_ he won this match, he’d have to demand Declan that he get him a better cot. This one was doing no favors to his back, and after he broke his arm last year, it hurt every night he slept on it a certain way.

Phinks cracked open an eye, looking into the darkness. “What are you brats whispering about?” he asked loudly, startling more than a few of them. He switched arms and rolled his eyes when the soft chatter stopped. They always got like that whenever he called them out on their gossiping.

Normally, at least. This time one of the kids coughed, clearing his throat. When he spoke, his words were as polite as he could make them.

“Um, Mr. Phinks,” he said, his words rounded at the edges with the typical slum-brat accent. “We was just wonderin’ ‘bout Declan.”

“What about him?” Phinks grunted, giving up on his stretching to flop back down on his cot. Only a few more minutes now until he had to go. Might as well spend it wasting his time with conversation.

“No one ignores him like you do,” some other kid whispered. Just a runt of a thing. Barely fifteen. The kennels surrounding Phinks’s were all filled with new faces. Venny hadn’t lasted long after Iason, and after he’d been tossed out back, Phinks had been left alone for a good while. Didn’t take long for Declan to find more, though. It’d been awhile since Phinks bothered to learn the names of the fodder that rose up to take their places. It was easier on him, he told himself. Getting attached to things never amounted to anything good.

“No one’s got the balls,” the first kid said. He looked at the others, his eyes widening when he saw they all agreed. “How d’you do it? You gotta tell us.”

Phinks scoffed. It wasn’t balls or courage or anything like that. Phinks ignored Declan because he alone could. The man was getting old. He had his strengths but so did Phinks. “Live long enough in this place and you’ll get them,” he muttered, forcing himself to sit up. If you lived long enough here, you stopped caring about the fear Declan’s fists incited. Phinks bared his teeth at the floor. Hell, live long enough and you just stop caring period.

He picked up the bottle of water and twisted off the cap, draining it in one go. He wasn’t meant to care anymore. Phinks was a pair of fists and a name, and both of those belonged to Declan. That was life. That was all it was.

The water tasted as bitter as his thoughts did. Funny, Phinks thought. He’d expected bottled water to taste better.

Like clockwork the door opened again, letting in the sound of screams and jeers and everything Phinks had built his life to revolve around pleasing. Declan barked out some order, probably to get his head outta his ass and in the game, but Phinks just stood and waited to be let out of his cage.

“It’s a full crowd tonight,” Declan murmured, barely looking at Phinks as he rubbed his gnarled, tattooed hands together. He kicked the empty bottle at the wall with a grin. “And boy, are they salivating for a chance for blood. Don’t let them down, you hear? This better be the best show you ever give.”

“Alright already,” Phinks grunted, crossing his arms as he shouldered past the man and went through the door. “I heard you well enough the first time.”

The roar of the audience washed over Phinks in a devastating onslaught that completely overshadowed Declan’s reply. It really was a full house tonight; from the general seating to the floor space, every available inch of the gym and ringside seating was filled to bursting. Hot bodies sweated and screamed for the blood they’d paid cash to see, and Phinks had to shove and push to open up a path big enough for him to walk through in order to make it to the ring. Declan kept close to him, following along in his footsteps for fear of being trampled by the hungry crowd.

Phinks was a bit sickened by all of it. The stench was bad enough, but the heat rising off the crowd was enough to make him feel a little dizzy. He quickly climbed into the ring, desperate for an escape from it. The heat of the piercing lights up above wasn’t much better, but at least in the ring he only had one person to worry about, not a thousand.

And lo and behold, his opponent was already waiting for him. Phinks eyed him closely as Declan scrambled through the rope fence and fumbled for his outdated microphone. Who the hell was this blocky, overfed guy? He hardly looked like the typical fighter these matches hosted. The man was too clean cut. If he was someone’s dog, Phinks would call him pampered.

This was going to be easy, wasn’t it?

Phinks winced when Declan finally got his microphone working. The thing screeched loudly in the speakers riddling the ceiling, somehow louder than the crowd but only just. “Ladies and gentlemen!” he greeted, feeding off the waves of bloodlust as if it were wine. “Welcome to the main event!”

The man looked only at Phinks. His eyes were small and watery, and when he lifted his hands to crack his knuckles, Phinks noticed he was heavily scarred. Mafia, maybe. There was some kind of power radiating off the guy’s shoulders. Phinks felt his stomach begin to churn.

“In the challenger’s corner we have the one, the only, Hammerhead!” Declan screeched, coaxing the crowd to follow his lead. “A recorded kill count of over eighty, he’s a Meteor City native with something to prove!”

Phinks swallowed, frowning when he found his mouth suddenly dry. Not a dog, then. Definitely mafia. He blinked when Declan threw out his hand and gestured to Phinks next. Phinks shook his head, trying and failing to banish whatever it was taking root in him.

“And in our home corner, we have the fighter who really needs no introduction! You know him, you fear him,” Declan shouted, lifting his hand into the air. “The Ripper Fist himself! Give it up for Phinks!”

Instead of the deafening sound of a thousand throats screaming, Phinks only heard a dull, hollow roar. Sure, he could see them frothing at the mouths. He could see them lifting their hands and feel the stomping of their feet through the floor. But the sound… The sound was muted.  

...Something wasn’t right.

The realization came to him quickly, but Phinks didn’t know why. His vision spun, and while it wasn’t odd for him to get wrapped up in the thrill and adrenaline rush these fights sometimes induced… feeling dizzy had never been a part of that before. Was he just dehydrated?

“Let’s see a good fight,” Declan said to them, microphone held away from him as he looked at Phinks critically. A grin spread across his face when Phinks stumbled a step back to lean against the rope fence. “You better make me proud. I put money on this one.”

“You put money on every fight,” Phinks mumbled, rubbing at his eyes when they refused to clear. He startled and stumbled when Declan clapped him heavily on the shoulder. Declan was grinning as he slipped through the ropes and back onto the floor. Fuckin’ weird.

Phinks put it from his mind. He forced himself to stand straight even though he wobbled dangerously away from the ropes. His opponent was already in the middle of the ring. Tall, built. Older than a lot of the usual fighters this ring played host to. Declan must have scrounged for someone who looked like they could take him. Better for the bets, Phinks guessed. It was no fun when you already knew who would win.

But _fuck._ What the hell was going on with his body right now? Phinks rubbed at his eyes and swore when it didn’t improve his vision.

“Somethin’ wrong?” the man asked, smiling as he raised his fists for the bell.

Phinks spat off to the side, lifting his own. “Yeah,” he grunted, pushing the growing unease aside. “I got your ugly mug to stare at for the five minutes this fight lasts.”

The guy scoffed and the bell finally rang. Watery red eyes glanced up, and a smirk appeared on the man’s face. Phinks swung his fist and clipped his shoulder. Dammit. He had been aiming for that smug fucking grin. Whatever. The crowd loved a little drama, right? He pulled back his fist and narrowly dodged the blow aimed for his head.

“You’re fast,” Phinks muttered, putting a few feet of distance between them. Fuck, he was sweating so much. He wiped his mouth and blamed the shitty vision on the sweat dripping into his eyes.

Almost as if to prove the compliment true, the man darted forward and delivered an uppercut that Phinks was too slow to avoid. It hit him square in the sternum, driving the air from his lungs. “Thought you would’ve dodged that,” the asshole fuckin’ joked, waving to the audience as Phinks choked and sputtered. “Feelin’ a bit off tonight, Ripper Fist?”

Panic was beginning to overshadow the pain. Something was wrong with him. Nothing like this had ever happened before in a fight. Phinks took in a shaky breath and struggled to put distance between them. He was sweating even more now, his skin hot and frozen at the same time. His knees gave out and Phinks tripped over his own feet. The world flickered past him with every blink of his eyes.

“Oh?” A laugh sounded above him. “Looks like the old fucker really did come through.”

The world blurred at the edges and Phinks’s vision promptly went to shit.

Was he blind? “The fuck is… happening?” Even his lips didn’t want to obey. Phinks took a step backwards, his legs shaking and threatening to give out beneath him. Dehydration wouldn’t do this. And fuck, he’d even drank a bottle full before he…

Phinks clenched his jaw right as a fist barreled into his ribs.

The pain was illuminating. If Phinks could laugh, he would have. It fucking made sense. Five years on the ring floor. Five years as the defending champion, the Ripper Fist, the Undefeated. It fucking figured that Declan was done with him. Who was going to bet against Phinks? No one. And that meant no fucking money for Declan.

What a fucking coward he was to drug Phinks’s water.

It was getting harder to think. Phinks blinked rapidly, hating how he could still see the fucker’s grin through the fog. This asshole knew. He fucking knew the fight was rigged, and he smiled as he showboated it to the audience. Phinks stumbled back, leaning on the ropes to keep upright. He wasn’t going to last much longer like this.

A fist came flying at him, striking him in the face in the time it took to blink. Phinks lurched to the side, nearly losing his balance completely. Fuck. The pain rippled through him sluggishly, and he latched onto it desperately to keep from going under entirely. Another punch. Phinks reached for his shoulder, his arms as heavy as lead.

“You think…let you...wind…?” the asshole jeered. Phinks took another blow, this time to the gut. Sound came and went, filtered in on bursts that felt like whimsy. “I’ve watched...years! I know how...secrets work!”

Planned this. That fucker planned all of this, and this asshole knew it too. Phinks stumbled back, pummeled by fists that didn’t seem to stop coming. His jaw, his cheek, his mouth— Phinks felt a tooth loosen and float on his tongue before he managed to spit it to the floor alongside a mouthful of blood. He hung from the ropes and tried to look at his opponent.

Only… The guy wasn’t looking at Phinks anymore. He was twisted at the hips, staring off into the crowd. Shouting something? Phinks’s ears were ringing too loudly to tell for sure.

“F-Fucker,” Phinks spat, blood running down his chin in a burning wave. He tried to stand but fell fully to the mat. “F-Fuckin’ look at me—”

“Shut up!” The guy turned and kicked Phinks in the ribs. “Somethin’ is goin’ down and I don’t need to hear you right now!”

The fuck was he on about? The pain made it hard to think. Phinks coughed and blinked his eyes furiously. Sound filtered through his ringing ears. Vaguely, though. What was he hearing? Not cheers or jeering applause. Popping? Gunfire, maybe? And… screams. Those were screams, right? Phinks couldn’t tell anymore. It all sounded the same, but something was happening in the audience, and this asshole was paying it more mind than Phinks now. Phinks forced himself to roll over, leveraging himself onto his knees. Just one wind. He only needed to do it once to rip this fucker a new one.

After that…

After that, Phinks didn’t give a fuck what happened. If he died, he died. If he lived to fight another one of these fights… Phinks closed his eyes, winding his arm as the power swelled around his fist.

“Hey,” he called out, voice low and rough and pitifully weak to his own ears. “Fucker!” He forced himself to his feet as the man turned around, greeting that shocked, smug face with a fist straight through his stomach. Phinks managed a grin. “Undefeated... for a reason.”

The asshole obviously couldn’t reply, but even if he were still capable of making sounds other than pained gurgles, Phinks wasn’t sure if he’d be able to understand it anyway. He pulled his fist back and promptly lost his fight to stay upright. In the span of a single blink, Phinks found himself on the ground. He rolled himself onto his back, struggling to breathe as whatever the fuck he’d been dosed with took hold.

If there was still an audience watching, Phinks could no longer hear them. He blinked rapidly, failing to chase the thick fog obscuring his vision. He tightened his hands into loose fists, swearing violently when he failed to do even that.

He blinked faster when something loomed overhead. The piercing bright lights darkened.

Soft dark hair. Cool grey eyes. A face so beautiful it seemed… No. It couldn’t be real.

An angel? Here?

_I really am dying._

The realization… It didn’t scare him like he thought it would.

It was only a matter of time, wasn’t it? Phinks struggled to keep his eyes open, his thoughts ebbing and flowing, dripping like a leaky pipe. He’d last longer than most. He’d lasted… He’d lasted longer than anyone else had thought he would.

“Are you coming?” the angel asked, voice soft, warm, so fucking warm. Fingertips in the dark.

_Warm._

“Yeah,” he mouthed, closing his eyes for the last time. He would go.

It was about time he stopped fighting anyway.

  **.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**End of Act I**


	2. Chapter One

**.**

**.**

**.**

The second Phinks opened his eyes, he threw up.

Violently, he threw up. His stomach heaved and his lungs ached, his throat burning with the taste of bile and acid and pain. His vision swam. Tears poured down his cheeks. Murky black. Shapes? Fluttering shapes flitting to and fro.

“There, there,” a soft, gentle voice soothed somewhere behind him. “Get it all out, okay?” What did they think he was doing? Hacking for the hell of it?

“Such a waste,” another voice grumbled, decidedly less comforting. “We could have party with that.”

Phinks wiped his eyes and struggled to stay upright. Something warm was supporting him from behind. “We can always get more vodka,” the first voice sighed. What felt like fingers brushed Phinks’s hair away from his face. “It’s not like it’s much of a party with just the two of us here.”

There came a snort from the other one. “Why else you bring him here?” he asked, his words chopped and rough, his speech rounded at the edges from an accent Phinks had never heard before. “Why else you let him have all the booze?”

Phinks let out a groan which quickly cut the conversation short. His insides burned, and his head pounded horribly. He fought to get his hands beneath himself to sit up, but a sharp, intense pain tore through his hands when he tried. “F-Fuck,” he spat, trying to see through the tears blurring his vision. What the hell happened to him?

“Well, it looks like he’s alive,” the first voice reported, too chipper for Phinks’s taste. Gentle hands took him by the shoulders, sitting him up before he could try moving again.

“Disgusting.”

“Well, he’d be a lot more disgusting if he died, wouldn’t he?”

His back met a wall or something firm like one. The hands, warm, soft, brushed his hair from his eyes and wiped his mouth and chin with a rough cloth. A face was beginning to take shape through the fog. Dark hair, pale skin.

“Can you get me the medicine?” the shape asked, turning to look back. A dark blur grumbled and appeared at his side. “This might hurt; don’t move.”

Warm hands lifted his arm, ripping his sleeve and baring his inner elbow to the chilly air. Phinks watched but didn’t understand. Shapes were all they were. Shapes and voices and-and-and- _sharp,_ needle pain sharp pain _Declan_.

“What the fuck!” that accented voice shouted.

“Hold still, I’m helping you!” the first voice tried to say, but Phinks swung his fist through the air, raging against the needles, the pain, the everything. Where was he? What the fuck was happening? He didn’t hit anything. The world spun when he lurched to his feet. Something struck his knee. He hit the ground hard.

Phinks shuddered as his ears rang, blotting out the voices shouting above his head. _Rabid_ , a voice yelled. _Stand down,_ another ordered.

He didn’t realize he’d been rolled onto his back until the light burned his watery eyes. Phinks curled himself into a ball, guarding his ribs, his head, his throat just as he knew to do. The pain would come fast, sharp and strong. He shivered in the cool air, the sweat covering every inch of his skin freezing him like ice.

The first touch came in the form of a caress, gentle and warm against his trembling arm. Phinks flinched away, but the hand persisted. “Are you okay?” that voice whispered. The touch turned to petting. “We aren’t here to hurt you. It was just a shot. To make you feel better.”

Phinks shook so hard that his muscles ached.

“Not understand you. Really rabid.”

“Help me sit him up,” the voice ordered, his touch turning firm as he wrapped his hand around Phinks’s arm. Stomping and grumbling followed, and then another pair of hands took him by the shoulders, jerking him off the floor. Phinks’s head lolled against his chest. It was easier to breathe like this. He still shivered, leaning desperately into the hands that lifted his face.

Black hair. Pale skin. Grey eyes.

“A-Angel?” he mouthed. His throat was so dry. He coughed and tried again. “Am I dead?” He lifted a hand and wrapped it around the angel’s wrist, freezing when the sound of sliding metal issued just behind him. The cold, sharp point of a sword settled on his shoulder. The point teased the edge of his neck.

“You be dead if you don’t let go,” the dark voice warned, and Phinks quickly dropped his hand.

The angel sighed, glaring at his friend. “Is that really necessary?”

A scoff. “Knowing you? Always.”

Rolling his eyes, the angel brought his attention back to Phinks. “You’re not dead. You were drugged with something,” the angel said, taking Phinks by the chin to look into his eyes carefully. “At first I thought it was just a roofie, but then you passed out in the ring and started to twitch. Fei thinks it was rat poison, but I’m not sold on that.”

So they what, shoved a bottle of vodka down his throat? The fuck kind of logic was that? Phinks batted away the probing hands weakly, jolting when the blade pressed harder against his skin. “Don’t move,” came the voice from before. The short one, the angry one. “One wrong move, I cut you.”

“Calm down already, Feitan,” the angel sighed. He smiled at Phinks and put his hands on Phinks’s jaw this time, checking for broken bones. “Sorry about him. He’s a little over-protective.”

Only a little? Phinks twitched when the fingers pressed against a tender spot just beneath his cheekbone. “Who are you people?” he asked, his voice low, slurred, and more of a growl than anything human. He’d lost another tooth in that fight. His tongue kept finding the empty space, prodding and worrying the gum until blood filled his mouth.

“Well, I’m Chrollo and he’s Feitan—”

“Don’t tell our names!” Feitan hissed, punishing Phinks for asking with a thin cut against his neck.

Chrollo, the angel, rolled his eyes, sharing a fond smile with Phinks that he certainly didn’t emulate. “Don’t pay him any mind, okay? What’s your name? You may be curious about us, but I guarantee I’m much more curious about you.”

Feitan scoffed and Phinks glanced back at him nervously. Everything about this situation set his nerves on fire, instinct refusing to let him relax. Chrollo drew back his attention by reaching for a bag off to the side. “Phinks,” he said quietly, eyes flicking nervously around the room. His vision was fuzzy still. From the booze or the poison or the beating… he couldn’t tell.

“Do you have a last name?”

Phinks paused and then bobbed his head, eyes locked on the grimy floor. There was a lot of wood rot in this place. The windows across from him were boarded up, letting in the barest amount of light. He could still see, though. The kennels were much worse. Much darker. “Magkav.”

He felt the exchanging looks between the two of them. Chrollo dipped down, chasing his avoidant eye with a kind smile. It was magnetic, really, and Phinks didn’t blame himself at all for following it back up when Chrollo finally got his attention.

“Fei, you can stand down, alright?”

The sword didn’t move an inch. Chrollo raised a brow, and there was a scoff against the back of Phinks’s neck as the blade retreated, slipping back into its sheath with a soft _shick._ “Sorry about that,” Chrollo murmured, watching his friend stalk off towards the adjacent wall. He turned back to Phinks and wrapped his arms around his knees. “Anyway, back to you.”

“Back to me,” Phinks repeated.

Chrollo’s eyes roved down the length of him, his expression unreadable. “What happened to you?” he asked after a moment of silence.

Phinks scoffed weakly. It hurt his ribs, but everything hurt, so what did it matter? “I lost,” he said simply. “Got my ass kicked.” Nearly died. He’d _thought_ he had died, but Chrollo didn’t seem to be done with him yet.

“Why were you fighting?”

Did he seriously not know? “You aren’t from around here, are you?” It wasn’t the first time he’d noticed; Chrollo’s voice was too smooth, his words too articulate. The clothing he wore was nondescript but still a far cry better than anything you’d find in the slums. Not mafia, but definitely not a local—

“I actually grew up a few miles from here,” Chrollo said, ruining every ounce of Phinks’s current assumptions. He swiveled and reached for something behind him, bring forward a dingy bag that he began to dig through. “So, why were you fighting?”

It took Phinks a few seconds to recover. “I was… It’s a fight club. That’s what fighters do,” he said slowly. “It’s all I’ve done since I was a kid.” Chrollo pulled something from the bag. Antiseptic spray, bandages… “I was the main event for the night.”

Chrollo dampened a cloth with the antiseptic. “Why did you lose?” He glanced up with curiosity dripping off his every inch. Phinks held still when he lifted the cloth to his cheek, the sting more than familiar by now.

The pain of it, the scent of it… Phinks bared his teeth and pulled away, wincing when his body protested the movement. What was he to say? That he’d been poisoned by the one man who ever thought he had some worth because he was no longer profitable? Fuck this, and fuck that. He lifted his hands and rubbed at his face, grunting when it just made his hands burn like fire. Broken. Again.

“The boss got sick of me winning,” Phinks spat, sagging against the wall as Chrollo stared at his mutilated hands. He couldn’t bear to see what an angel thought of them. He stared at the ground instead. “Drugged my water before I went out. Bet all the money on the other guy. What the fuck happened to Declan? Does he know you have me?” He’d be livid, wouldn’t he? After losing his prized dog. But maybe not now, though. Phinks had outlived his use.

Chrollo looked over at Feitan, and Feitan shrugged his narrow shoulders. “Who is Declan?” Chrollo asked lightly, turning his attention back to Phinks. He took up one of Phinks’s hands gently, and Phinks let him because what else could he do? “Not that man you were fighting, right? You put a hole in that one.”

Phinks shook his head and swore when Chrollo set one of his broken fingers out of the blue. He jolted and heard Feitan draw his sword again. Only, it wasn’t a proper sword. Some sort of… weird umbrella. Freak. He shook his head rapidly, hoping to convey that he wasn’t about to lose control again. After a few deep breaths, he opened his eyes and shook his head once more. “Don’t you know Declan?” he muttered, preparing himself for the next finger. “He ann-Shit! Fuck, he announced the match. He owns the gym. He owns the fighters.”

“He own you?” Feitan asked.

Phinks glared. There was something nasty in the runt’s voice he didn’t appreciate. “If he did,” Chrollo interrupted, stealing back Phinks’s attention easily with his soft, addicting voice, “he doesn’t anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

Chrollo set another finger and answered. “Because I killed him last night.”

The pronouncement came so smoothly that Phinks didn’t even process the pain of his hand for a moment. He just stared at the beautiful face across from him, his mind stuttering on the impossibility of it all. “What?” he breathed, laughing a little and he shook his head. “That’s… You’re lying, right? You can’t just kill Declan. He’s a monster.”

“Needle-fist, right?” Feitan asked. He scoffed when Chrollo nodded. “Transmuter. Pathetic. Give rest of us bad name.”

“He did have pretty weak nen,” Chrollo agreed with a sigh. He reached for some bandages and began winding them around Phinks’s knuckles. “The hatsu was only half formed. Might have been something worth stealing if he actually put the effort into seeing it through.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Hatsu? Transmuter? They said that nen word again… “Declan was the strongest guy I’ve ever seen!” he argued, wincing when Chrollo tugged a bandage too tight. “The fuck do you mean he was weak?”

Feitan gave him an unimpressed look. “You fucking with us?” he scowled. “Your nen ten times as strong. You could kill him yourself, coward.”

Phinks locked up, staring at him incomprehensibly. “What?” he breathed quickly, harder now, his vision getting muddy. He yanked his hands away from Chrollo, struggling to understand. Declan was dead and Phinks could have killed him. It… It couldn’t be true. Nothing could hurt Declan, and that was just how it was.

“Fei, can you go get us some food?” Chrollo said suddenly, turning to address his friend. Phinks barely heard his voice as something like water rushed past his ears in a dull roar.

“I not leave you alone with him,” Feitan protested, shaking his head viciously. “He mad dog.”

Chrollo sighed. “Do you really think I can’t defend myself?”

“I _know_ you won’t,” Feitan hissed. “You let him do what he want just to see what he does.”

“I won’t do anything,” Phinks cut in, shaking his head to dispel the fog veiling his eyes. He felt on the verge of panic and this arguing wasn’t helping. Closing his eyes didn’t help either. He curled himself into a tight ball and buried his head in his arms.

“He’s in no condition to hurt me anyway, Fei,” came Chrollo’s soft voice. Phinks stiffened when a hand carded through his hair. He held still, grew more tense, but did nothing to discourage it. It felt… nice.

Feitan made an ugly, derisive sound. “Fine,” he said in a clipped tone. His boots clacked on the wooden floors. “I get food. If one thing out of place when I get back—”

“It’ll be fine, Fei. I promise.”

“Better be,” Feitan muttered, the slamming door a punctuation to the threat his words were.

The room was silent then, only broken by Chrollo’s soft sigh and the whisper of his fingers through Phinks’s hair. “Finally alone,” he teased quietly, tugging gently to get Phinks to lift his head. “He won’t be long. Try to compose yourself before he comes back.”

“And how do you suggest I do that?” He was beaten, broken, whisked away to a place he didn’t know with people who already proved themselves to be stronger than he was. Phinks stared at his broken hands and glowered at the bandages. “I don’t know anything.”

He startled a little when Chrollo leaned forward and pushed his face between him and his hands. “Why don’t you ask?” he supplied helpfully. “No one said you can’t ask questions. You aren’t a prisoner here, Phinks. But maybe rest is a better option for right now. You look exhausted.”

Phinks certainly felt it, but sleep was the last thing he could stomach right now. A thousand questions wouldn’t be enough to sate his curiosity. “What is nen?” Phinks asked, pleaded almost. “Declan said it a few times, and now you. What is it? Why do I have it?” He needed answers more than he needed rest. He’d seen Declan do horrible things with whatever it was; Phinks gripped his fist in his hand. He’d done horrible things with it too.

Chrollo hummed, in no way reflecting his need. He tapped at his chin as he thought, staring off at the faded wallpaper peeling off the far wall. “How to explain it…” he murmured. “It’s a power of a sort, innate to people who can wield it. Though, that isn’t to say not everyone can wield it; anyone can if given the proper training, but true proficiency and aptitude varies, just like with any other skill. A person’s personality tends to bleed through; but I always wonder, what shapes a person’s hatsu? Such a curious thing, really.”

He paused there to look at Phinks, and his confusion must have been obvious because Chrollo bit his lip and smiled. “I’m not the best at explaining things,” he said gently. “You have nen, though. Something woke it in you, or you used it unconsciously. You were trained by Declan, yes?”

Phinks scoffed. “Trained?” he spat. “That’s a word for it.”

“Breathing exercises? Meditation?”

Phinks stared at Chrollo blankly. “He would beat me,” he said plainly, narrowing his eyes when Chrollo merely nodded. “Lock me up and break my hands. He’d… He’d beat me until I got angry.”

Chrollo tilted his pretty head to the side, his dark eyes wide and watching. Curious. “And what would he do when you got angry?”

It hurt to clench his hands into fists, but it was instinctive at this point. Phinks drew his knees close to his body, hiding his face in his crossed arms. “You saw well enough,” he breathed, somehow knowing Chrollo would hear. “He’d open the cage and point me at an opponent.” Sometimes a stranger. Sometimes a friend. Sometimes just another poor, unlucky brat who deserved better than to die in some ring for the pleasure of a jeering, bloodthirsty crowd.

Chrollo hummed. “Fascinating,” he said under his breath, and had it come from anyone but him, Phinks would have thought he was being patronized. But he wasn’t. Chrollo looked at him with glittering eyes, his lips parted as his fingers curled beneath his chin. “You’ve a rather strong will, don’t you?”

It was a stupid thing to do, laughing. His ribs burned, and his throat felt raw from the puking. It didn’t stop him from doing it, though. Phinks threw back his head and laughed, letting the wall keep him upright when the pain filled his head. If only Chrollo knew how far he’d fallen; the hole didn’t reward _will_. It broke and broke and took and took until all that remained was a willing pile of flesh and rage.

“I don’t even know the meaning of the word,” Phinks managed to wheeze as his body forced him to stop laughing. He sagged down the wall a few inches, dizzy and aching and miserable. He flicked his gaze towards Chrollo. Surely he’d just scared off this angel with that.

“You do,” Chrollo said, not scared, not repulsed, not anything but what he had been before. He tapped at his temple knowingly. “I can see it. It’s a beautiful color, you know. Very strong. You should be proud. Not many can do what you can.”

He didn’t have the energy to argue. His cheeks burned from the praise, and Phinks quickly turned his face towards the floor. “Why were you there?” Why did he come right as Phinks was about to fall? He lifted his hand and rested it on his chest, right over the hanging cross still tied around his neck. Clenching his hand in his shirt, he bit the inside of his cheek.

Chrollo shrugged and stared curiously at his hand. “I was looking for someone.”

Phinks swallowed down the pain that swelled as he shifted against the wall. “Did you find them?” he asked. Fuck, everything hurt. He won that fight but it didn’t feel like it. How he was going to manage without hands until they healed was… Well, he didn’t want to think about it right now. “It wasn’t Declan, right?”

“No, it wasn’t him,” he laughed gently, falling back against the floor to look at the ceiling. Phinks looked up too. The ceiling had at one point been painted white, but after probably decades of abandonment, it stood peeling in large swathes. Water and damp and mold colored the rest in varying splotches of black and green and grey. It wasn’t anything interesting to see, but Chrollo still smiled at it regardless. “But I found the one I needed to find. Killed the other as well.”

“Is that what you do then? Kill?”

Chrollo’s smile widened. “I live,” he answered. “Just the same as you.”

Phinks tensed his hands instinctively, the pain chasing the words like the vodka and acid still thick on his tongue. “What are you going to do with me?” he whispered. “Kill me?” Throw him in another cage? Heal his hands and save his life just to… to what? He tightened his fist tighter. The pain lessened as his thoughts ran wild.

Something flashed and brightened around Chrollo’s eyes. He rolled his cheek on his arm and looked at Phinks from head to toe. “Why don’t you focus on getting better before worrying about something like that,” he suggested with that same smile, that same soft, mysterious smile that put Phinks out like a snuffed candle. “And relax, okay? No need to… be so on guard.”

Phinks stared at Chrollo. Just… stared at him as he closed his eyes and pillowed his head with his crossed arms. Utterly at peace. Utterly relaxed. Anxiety dripped down from Phinks’s heart, poisoning his aching stomach in measured bursts. He rested his head against the wall, staring at the man on the floor in front of him.

He’d never met someone so… so...

The door slammed open and Feitan entered in a rush, out of breath and clutching an enormous bag in his hand. He looked around the room, locking in on Chrollo and assessing to see if even a hair was out of place. Phinks might have been offended by the distrust, but the scent of whatever was in the bag had his full attention. His aching stomach awoke with a vengeance, his mouth filling with saliva.

“Oh, you’re back!” Chrollo exclaimed, happily jumping to his feet to take the bag from Feitan. Dust covered his dark clothes, but he hardly seemed to care. “That didn’t take long at all. What’d you get?”

“Chicken,” he muttered, glaring at Phinks despite him doing nothing to earn it. “Did the dog behave?”

“He was a perfect gentleman.” Chrollo’s voice was a bit muffled now, his head buried in the bag as he dug through it, pulling out a few containers and setting them on the floor beside him. “Did you get—?”

Feitan swiped one of the containers and headed back to his corner with a sigh. “Yes, I got you fries,” he muttered, looking up only to give Chrollo a hard look. “Eat other things too, Chrollo. Not just fries.”

Phinks snorted when Chrollo just waved him off. After another minute of searching, he finally found the container he was looking for. He was just about to tear into his fries when he caught Phinks staring. Chrollo blinked and looked down at the bag. “Are you going to eat?” he asked, nodding at the food he’d scattered all around him.

“Am… I allowed?” Phinks whispered, staring at the food, at the things he’d only dreamed of eating back in that cage. When was the last time he’d eaten something hot? Something that wasn’t covered in dirt from being tossed into the cage like scraps to a waiting dog? The food had gotten better over the years with all the fights won, but fried chicken? Fast food? They were dreams and memories of his childhood and nothing more.

Chrollo stared at him for a moment before grabbing up a few boxes of food and carrying them over to him. He sat himself down beside Phinks, their thighs brushing, his shoulder nudging Phinks’s as he set out the food on Phinks’s lap. “I’ll share my fries with you,” he said simply, opening up the cartons with a smile. “So, eat up, okay? There’s plenty here for you too.”

Across the room, Feitan rolled his eyes and took a bite of his own chicken. “Feed a stray and it come back for more,” he warned, giving Chrollo a knowing, judgemental look.

“You say that every time,” Chrollo laughed, nudging Phinks until he picked up a box. “I’ve got a good feeling about him. Let’s see where it goes.”

Something warm threatened to fill his chest at those words, that smile, the promise of more. Phinks focused on the food. It was easier to understand by far.


	3. Chapter Two

Falling asleep in an unfamiliar place had lost its newness in Phinks quite some time ago. He had lived his life in a cage, after all. If asked, he would have assumed that would have given him the ability to sleep comfortably anywhere given he had a blanket and maybe something to keep him off the cold floor. But thoughts like those hadn’t really occurred to him, and now that he was in this ramshackle room with two strangers of undeterminable origin… 

Well, suffice to say that Phinks had thought it odd that Chrollo deigned to sleep so close to him. 

“Do you have enough blankets?” Chrollo asked, dragging his own just a foot away from Phinks’s designated section of peeling floor and moldering wall. 

Phinks swallowed and nodded, unable to tell him that this was more than he’d been given in the kennels, even after five years of wins. Feitan was across the room, watching with keen eyes. He hadn’t bothered to take any blankets for himself; in fact, he sat with his book and in his boots, sleep the furthest thing from his mind. Phinks laid himself down and rolled onto his shoulder, blushing when he saw that Chrollo had done the same. 

“Good idea to sleep that close?” Feitan called out from across the room. He didn’t bother to look up from his book, but then again, he didn’t need to to get his point across. Chrollo just rolled his eyes, sharing a knowing look with Phinks in response. 

“Good night, Fei,” Chrollo said teasingly. “Are you sure you can handle things tonight? There’s still time to call it a night too, you know.”

Feitan waved his hand dismissively. “Someone has to do it,” he murmured. “Someone not busy with new pet.”

Phinks was curious, but beyond that he was too tired to really care about what they were talking about. Chrollo occupied his full attention regardless. With his head resting on his small makeshift pillow, he looked too good to be true. “Good night, Phinks,” he whispered anyway, smiling his little smile. “Sweet dreams.”

It was impossible to smother the smile the sentiment incited in him. Phinks felt warm from his fingers to his toes. “Night,” he breathed, blinking slowly as Chrollo closed his dark eyes, slipping off with an ease that could only be envied. 

With his stomach full, his wounds dressed, and his mind quiet, Phinks wasn’t surprised at all when he followed soon after. 

He managed about three hours before it all came crashing down in the form of a ghost punching a hole through his heart. 

Phinks woke with a choked scream— gagged as a hand wrapped around his throat, as a thousand needles pierced his skin, a darkness he didn’t recognize smothering him like a rat in a drain pipe. He choked, sputtered, gasped. There was weight on his chest, heavy, warm, awful. Phinks thrashed and fought, rejecting it all, kicking out at the attackers around him, his ears filled with the jeering screams of a crowd out for blood. 

Dark, so dark, where was he? What was happening? Fuck, fight, he had to fight, something was touching him, a hand, a fist, a hand around his arm—

Grab. Throw. Pin. Phinks didn’t need to see to know how to kill someone. 

“Phinks!” a voice called, but demons had voices too. Declan had a voice, and it screamed in the darkness in Phinks’s brain.  _ Get angry, Punk _ , it shrieked, louder than the voice below.  _ I want to see you angry. _

He swung before he realized who it was he had beneath him. The wood buckled and snapped beneath his fist. Wood? Splinters pierced his knuckles, and Phinks blinked himself back into his body. Not cold cement. No bars. No lights. Silence. He wasn’t in that cage. He wasn’t in the ring. 

Declan was dead. Where was he then? Phinks struggled to catch his breath, blinking furiously until he could see. 

His heart seized when he finally realized where he was, and what he had just punched. 

Dark grey eyes stared up at him, Chrollo’s cheek brushing the side of his bleeding fist. “Are you awake now?” he whispered, laying absolutely still. Just an inch to the right and his skull would have been crushed. “Phinks? Can you hear me?”

No.  _ No no no _ . Chrollo furrowed his brow and lifted his hand to touch Phinks’s arm, but Phinks operated under instinct. He grabbed the hand and pinned it atop the splintered wood, squeezing until the delicate bones of Chrollo’s wrist creaked dangerously. Warm. He was warm, but fuck he was so small. Iason small, just a runt, just a hole through a floor, bleeding red red red—

“Who is Iason?”

Black hair turned brown, but those eyes… They were just as soft, just as kind. Searching, melancholic— 

He let go of the wrist in his hand. He threw himself back, off of Chrollo, against the wall. Phinks shook his head violently and scrubbed at his face with his mutilated hands, crying out when it just hurt him more. Everything was mixing, overlapping. Where was he? Who was he with? The gym, the cage… He couldn’t escape it, could he? Even here—

Warm fingers wrapped around his wrists, pulling his hands away from his face. “Phinks?” Chrollo called, pressing their foreheads together. Phinks avoided his gaze. He shook hard enough to chatter his teeth. “Phinks, can you hear me?” 

It was all Phinks could do to nod. He looked down, eyes drawn to the hands holding his own immobile. Chrollo’s sleeves drooped down his slim wrists. 

Even in the dark the stark imprint of his hands were visible. 

Phinks had to pull away before he threw up. His head pounded and his stomach churned dangerously. “I hurt you,” he managed to gasp, sucking in air to try and stave off the instinctual urge to void his empty stomach. No, not empty, he remembered. Not empty anymore, thanks to the one he’d just hurt. The one he’d tried to kill not even ten minutes ago.

Chrollo made a curious sound and lifted his hand up, his smile appearing once more when he caught sight of the deep bruises darkening his pale wrist. “Just a bruise,” he said softly, brushing it aside as if it were nothing at all. “Come back here. You hurt yourself a lot more than you hurt me.”

“K-Kill me,” Phinks muttered, shaking his head, shaking all over really. His teeth chattered in his skull. His muscles ached from the force of his trembling. “Do it. I’m—dangerous. Rabid. Mad dog, put me down.” He looked at Chrollo and saw only pity, sympathy. Phinks swallowed the acid on his tongue, his stomach revolting at the sight. He hid his head with his arms, curling into a ball. “Mad, broken, kill me, do it, I’ll hurt you—”

“Shhh,” that warm voice hushed, even warmer hands carding through Phinks’s hair. The touch was light, gentle, but the feeling, the sinking feeling of knowing what it felt like to have it pulled, yanked, ripped by Declan at any given moment forced Phinks to recoil against the wall. Away from the hands. Away from the pain he knew would come.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Chrollo whispered. Phinks blinked, realizing he had… He’d said all of that out loud. “Phinks? Phinks, can you lift your head for me? Can you look at me? Yeah, good, that’s it,” he crooned, his voice so soothing Phinks couldn’t help but listen. He  _ wanted  _ to listen, was the strange thing. Soft, dark eyes met him gently, and Phinks tried not to flinch when Chrollo reached for his hands. 

“Good, good,” the strange, confusing angel praised. He took Phinks’s hands carefully, small, soft, gentle, so fucking gentle, and now Chrollo furrowed his brow? Why? Did Phinks do something wrong already? He took in a lungful of air that didn’t sate, and then another, and another faster still. Phinks stared at Chrollo with wide eyes, his hands clenching around Chrollo’s, his vision speckling black—

Warm.  _ Warm _ . Warm lips against his gasping mouth, dark eyes staring into his own, nose to nose. Phinks stopped breathing entirely. Chrollo’s eyes fell to half-mast. The softest, slightest sigh issued from Chrollo’s lips, so slight that Phinks barely registered it at all. A switch had been flipped in Phinks’s brain; he froze stiff, rigid like a statue until Chrollo pulled away a moment later.

Phinks flushed hotly when he saw Chrollo lick his lips a second after.

“You kissed me,” Phinks mouthed. He cleared his throat, his voice cracking when he tried again. His chest hurt in a way that he’d never felt before. Breathing was hard to manage, but for a markedly different reason than before. “Y-You… You did that. To me. Kissed. Me?”

Chrollo shrugged his shoulders, still smiling that small little smile of his. He looked down at the hands he still held in his own, looking at them carefully as he made himself comfortable on the floor. “It got you to calm down, didn’t it?” he said, plucking the splinters from Phinks’s knuckles carefully. There wasn’t much light to work with this late at night. He sat close to Phinks; the warmth of his body nearly burned. 

Phinks stared at him incredulously. A part of him wanted to touch his lips just to make sure he didn’t imagine it. Chrollo worked without falter. It would be easy to pretend he imagined it if he so chose to. Was he giving him an out? Did he just not care? 

“Have you ever kissed someone before?” 

“Excuse me?” Phinks sputtered, nearly jerking his hand away entirely. 

Chrollo looked at him through his messy bangs. The corner of his mouth was quirked upwards in a half-smile. “You’re fretting about it an awful lot, so it made me think that was your first,” he said matter-of-factly. He reached for the antiseptic spray after giving Phinks’s knuckles a once over. No more splinters, then. “Fei picked a good night to go out spying. Doubt he would have appreciated me doing that of all things to you. But then again, I wonder if he’d even be surprised? You seemed surprised, though. I wonder why that is? You’re probably my age. It’s natural, isn’t it?” 

This was… embarrassing. Phinks wasn’t sure what was worse, the flush on his cheeks or the thought of why he’d been kissed at all. Chrollo hummed softly under his breath as he pulled out the familiar, dwindling roll of gauze. “We… weren’t allowed to do things like that,” Phinks murmured, thankful that Chrollo didn’t bother to look up from his work when he spoke. He wasn’t sure he could have this conversation while maintaining eye contact. 

“I suppose that makes sense,” he answered as he set himself to doing what must now be routine. The bandages stung when they laid atop the new gashes and cuts, but Chrollo’s fingers were soft, light, soothing the pain with their care. Phinks hated it a bit. How his ugly, knobbly hands looked cradled in Chrollo’s perfect ones. “Probably best not to dull a beast’s teeth with something like copulation, right?”

Phinks let out a rueful huff of breath. “I understood maybe half of the words you just said.”

That earned him a little laugh. Chrollo brushed a lock of hair behind his ear, smiling for a second when he flicked his gaze to Phinks. “Nevermind,” he said, finishing up the first hand and moving on to the second. It hadn’t been injured by the splintering wood like the other had, but it definitely needed bandaged again after all that movement. “Did you have no one you were close to there? A friend?”

An echo of that sickening fear swelled in Phinks’s throat at the thought. He nodded his head the barest measure of an inch, fixing his eyes to a stain on the wood floor. “Iason,” he whispered, knowing Chrollo would hear. It was as silent as the grave in this place. No one breathing here but them.

Chrollo bobbed his head, not looking up. Sensing Phinks couldn’t be looked at right now? It was hard to tell. It was hard to predict what Chrollo thought, what he wanted. “The name from before. You dreamed of them.” It wasn’t a question. Phinks nodded anyway. 

“Young kid. Smart. A runt.” Phinks spoke quickly, the words clipped and as impersonal as he could manage. “Bandaged me up whenever I got knocked around. S-Spoke to me when I broke.” His hands trembled in Chrollo’s. Chrollo’s fingers stilled, moving to his wrists to hold him there, where it wouldn’t hurt. 

“How long ago was this?”

Phinks shrugged. Time passed so strangely. How long had he been there? How old was he now? “A few years,” he said, since that felt safe. True enough at any rate.

“I see. How did he die?”

Chrollo’s tone was so even, so purposefully nonchalant that Phinks almost missed the knee jerk reaction to recoil at the thought of Iason’s death. Almost, but not quite. He twitched and bit his lip furiously, tasting blood, seeing it behind his eyes like the dream he’d only just shook off. Chrollo held tight to his wrists to keep him from pulling away. To keep them both safe, probably. Chrollo’s grip felt unbreakable. 

“Was it in a fight?” Chrollo asked softly, helping him. Always helping him. When Phinks nodded, Chrollo licked at his lips. Soft lips. Phinks knew. “Did you do it?”

There was silence. Stillness. Phinks sucked in a breath of air, nodding even as he closed his eyes as tight as he could manage. “Declan,” he mouthed, stopped, licked his lips, tried again. “Declan,” he said in a harsh whisper. “Made me. Wanted me. Angry. Beat him ‘til he bled inside. Made me. Out of his. No suffering. I couldn’t— I couldn’t let him suffer.”

Chrollo was in his lap before he really registered movement of any kind. Straddling his hips and his arms around Phinks’s neck, hugging him tightly, holding his head in the crook of Chrollo’s neck. Soft. Warm. A clean scent filled Phinks’s lungs, washing away the pain, the constricting fist of needles holding his breath at bay. Phinks wrapped his arms around Chrollo. He shook, but his angel held him back. 

“I’m sorry,” Chrollo whispered, over and over again, soothing him, reassuring him, combing through his hair with hands that weren’t broken, weren’t bent. He… He rocked Phinks in his arms. To and fro, to and fro. Stilling the sobs Phinks barely realized he was making. When had he last cried like this? When had anyone held him like this?

Phinks wasn’t sure when they went from sitting against the wall to laying down in the nest of blankets they used for bedding. He wasn’t sure he was processing much anymore. Chrollo held him to his chest and coaxed him into the blankets, curling against his side to hold him like this as well. Their heads were inches apart; the pillow was small, but Chrollo didn’t seem to mind. Phinks blinked, losing himself in the black of Chrollo’s eyes. It felt like drowning. It felt like love.

“Shh,” Chrollo breathed, bringing his hand up to stroke the plane of Phinks’s cheek. The warmth of his breath caressed Phinks’s lips. They were so close. Too close to be allowed. “Please, stop crying. There’s nothing to be afraid of here. You’re safe.”

The words were just words. Spoken by an angel, though. Maybe Phinks could believe them. He sagged into the bedding. He felt… so drained. The cool chain of his necklace pooled at the base of his chin, hitched high, too much like a collar. He shoved at it weakly with his clumsy, broken hands. It fell out of his shirt, the weight of the cross taking the chain low, loosening the noose around his neck enough to breathe.

Chrollo’s eyes were drawn to the movement. He stared at the cross for a moment before he looked into Phinks’s eyes. Phinks tensed when Chrollo’s hand came towards him, but he held himself still. Chrollo carefully held the thin cross in the palm of his hand. 

“Do you believe in God, Phinks?” he asked, taking in the small charm before he bothered to look at Phinks for an answer. 

Despite Chrollo’s gentleness, the question was too much right now. The idea of it all, of trying to think about things like that— Phinks closed his eyes and shook his head, trying to focus on the now. On this moment, and nothing else. The nightmare was still there, hanging from the rafters above. The black crept in, muddying the edges of his vision. 

Was he truly out of his cage? If he reached out his hand, would he feel the bars, or would he feel Chrollo’s skin?

“No,” he breathed, staring at Chrollo, looking only at him. “But I… I believe in angels.”

The smile Chrollo showed him was strong enough to stop Phinks’s heart. The laugh that followed brought him back. Phinks sucked in a harsh breath, closing his eyes, his stomach turning but not from sickness, not from dread. How was this real? How was any of this real? For him to be given so much… To be found like this by someone like Chrollo…

“Phinks?”

Phinks opened his eyes quickly, drawn to Chrollo’s voice like a moth to the cheap, fluorescent bulbs of the training room. He’d never understood why they stayed in a place like that, chasing a light so much weaker than the sun outside. But looking at Chrollo… Maybe the sun was too bright. Maybe a lie was easier. The sun, an angel, the promise of soft, warm lips as they brushed over his own…

“You’re an interesting guy,” Chrollo whispered, saying it like a secret. “I’m glad to have met you.”

And Chrollo was the strangest, most beautiful person Phinks had ever met. He wasn’t sure he could say it aloud, but he thought it regardless. “You shouldn’t be this close to me,” he said instead. It had to be said. Chrollo looked like he intended to sleep here, curled against him, holding him. “It isn’t safe.”

Smiling, always smiling, Chrollo shook his head a little and settled in. “You don’t have to fight anymore,” he said, promised, really. “It’s behind you. Your fists are your own now, Phinks. If you don’t want to hurt me… then don’t hurt me.”

It didn't work like that. None of this did. It didn’t matter if he wasn’t in that place anymore— his fists weren’t his. They didn’t listen to him. They didn’t care what he wanted or who he got close to. “They kept us in cages,” Phinks whispered, “because we were dogs.” It was what he was. Hurting was… It was all he was capable of now. 

It was what he had been made to do, and if Declan had proven anything in his life of ownership, it was that Phinks was the best there was at what he did.

Chrollo ran his fingers through Phinks’s hair. His expression… It was hard to read it in the dark. “Was it to keep you in or to keep others out?” Chrollo wondered, his voice so soothing, his presence such a balm. “Must be a matter of perspective. Were you a dog, Phinks?” His fingers lingered at his cheek. Phinks’s muscles twitched instinctively. He needed to fight back, but he knew there was no danger in this place. “Which side of the bars do you think you belong on?”

No danger but himself. No risk but for him. 

“There aren’t any bars here,” Phinks said. 

“No,” Chrollo smiled. “There aren’t.”

“...It’s not safe for you,” Phinks whispered after a moment of silence, after a moment of quiet breathing. “No matter what I want.”

And Chrollo smiled, hushing him, kissing his forehead. “I’ll take my chances,” the strange, beautiful, unrelenting angel returned, resting his head against Phinks’s shoulder. “It’s only fair.”

But… It wasn’t. Nothing in this life was fair, in this world, this city, this room. Phinks had learned that lesson time and time again, had it carved into his body, broken into his bones, etched on the marrow inside them until nothing felt real anymore. Nothing but the pain—the inevitability—that more would come. His fists weren’t his own. Chrollo…

Chrollo closed his eyes and nuzzled Phinks like he disagreed. 

His breath was warm against Phinks’s skin. 

Warm. Fingers in the darkness, the kindest touch he knew.

Phinks fell asleep. Not immediately like Chrollo seemed to, but he did. He fell asleep with the heat of another warming his side. His eyelids grew heavy and the hour later. The shadows on the walls lengthened. The air itself thickened with lethargy. Phinks closed his eyes and dreamt of who he might use his fists for instead. It was easier to dream than to understand in that way. Much easier.

Phinks had a thought he was long due for something easy, if only for a dream or two.


	4. Chapter Three

Phinks drifted to consciousness slowly to the feeling of fingers carding through his hair. They were gentle fingers, no doubt belonging to a hand that bore him no ill will. He wasn’t quite sure how he knew that. His eyes were still closed, and his mind was far from awake. In the kennels, back in that hell hole, a hand in the hair almost always meant pain. Declan tearing you from your sleep for more training, for a fight he might not want you to win. Phinks fought off a shiver and buried his face deeper into his warm pillow. 

He didn’t want to think about that. 

The fingers in his hair curled against the back of his neck. Phinks let out a sigh, relaxing again once they resumed their soft petting. There were voices chatting softly somewhere above his head. Low and quiet, they talked without much intent. 

“I understand you’re worried, but really, I’m fine,” a soft voice murmured. The sound alone made Phinks relax another notch. Chrollo? It had to be him. The sound of his voice reverberated gently through his pillow, the fingers running rhythmically through his hair. “Fei, I’m not a child. I can take care of myself.”

“You always like this,” Feitan muttered. “I know you strong.”

“Then don’t worry about me,” Chrollo said. “I’d much rather hear about you right now. What did you find out? Did it go well?”

Feitan scoffed, sending a ripple of distaste through Phinks. “It go fine. Cages cleaned out. Brats down there break out or someone come get them. Bodies still there from fight, though. Target nowhere in sight.” There was a pause as something crinkly took over the quiet. “Note where body fell.”

What peace Phinks had been enjoying before evaporated once those words took root in his mind. Cages. Brats. Fight. The fight club? He’d gone back? Phinks forced himself to relax, to listen to what they were saying. 

Chrollo inhaled sharply. His fingers paused in Phinks’s hair. “Let me see it,” he said, his hand leaving Phinks’s hair entirely as footsteps crossed the room. The sound of crinkling paper was loud in Phinks’s ear. He was supposed to be feigning sleep, but he missed the hand. 

“He asleep?”

Phinks forced himself to keep still. Chrollo didn’t answer. The seconds crept by before one came. 

“They’re mad,” Chrollo chuckled. “Do you think they know who it is after them, or is this just a general warning?”

Feitan made a noncommittal noise. Phinks’s skin prickled. The little asshole was staring at him now, glaring at the space between his shoulders. “You hard to forget,” Feitan muttered, his voice growing louder as he squatted right in front of Phinks’s head. “What happened to you?” he asked suddenly. “Wrists hurt, Chrollo. Don’t try to hide— I see them from here.”

It was getting incredibly hard to stay motionless. Phinks’s heart hammered in his chest, his stomach churning as Chrollo made a dismissive sound. “Just a little mishap,” Chrollo said, probably smiling like he always did. Phinks squeezed his eyes shut tighter. “It’s fine, Fei. Doesn’t even hurt.”

The memory of Chrollo’s pained expression filled the black behind his eyes as if to dispute that claim entirely. Phinks gave up the guise of sleeping, opening his eyes with a sigh. “Don’t lie,” he mumbled, too miserable to be embarrassed at being caught with his head in Chrollo’s lap. Chrollo’s hand stuttered in his hair, and with a reluctance he hoped wasn’t obvious, Phinks made himself pull away and sit up. He felt colder already away from Chrollo’s warm lap. He looked at Chrollo and winced. “Please. Don’t lie.”

Chrollo… Chrollo looked at him with soft eyes, that indulgent smile that sent warmth straight through Phinks’s heart. “Oh, Phinks,” he sighed, shaking his head gently. “I’m not lying. It doesn’t hurt, and it’s really not a big deal.” He looked at Feitan pleadingly. “You’ve seen me hurt far worse than this, Fei. Don’t make a thing out of this.”

Feitan’s gaze hardened. He full on glared at Phinks like he wanted nothing more than to set him on fire. “If you not make deal out of it,” he said slowly, “then who will? You going to let him kill you next time? Choke you to death when I not here? Fuck that, Chrollo. Fuck. That.”

“I wouldn’t—”

Feitan cut Phinks off with a sharp, threatening wave of his hand. He scoffed, spitting his words out from between his teeth. “And how you know that? How you say that?” he demanded, and even Chrollo flinched. “You hurt him. You say oh, not my fault! Not my fault, he scared, he hurt. He  _ rabid _ , Chrollo. He no control. He—” 

What followed next came in Feitan’s native tongue. Phinks looked at Chrollo and saw that Chrollo didn’t understand it either, but Chrollo seemed to have a better time guessing the intent behind the words than he did. He sat there and watched his friend gesticulate and pace, cheeks flushed as he unloaded his feelings in the only way he could properly articulate them. After several minutes, Feitan’s voice began to fade. A few more after that and he sat himself down, breath ragged, and glared at the both of them. 

“Why don’t I get us some food?” Chrollo said slowly, looking between the two of them carefully. “I think we all could use something to eat. Phinks?” Phinks looked up, needing the attention too much to ignore the sound of Chrollo’s voice. Chrollo rewarded him with a smile. “Rest up some more, okay? You need to give your hands a rest so they can heal. Feitan… We’ll get into this once I get back. Please, don’t start anything.”

The sound of derision that inspired wasn’t a surprise at all. Feitan kicked at the dingy wall, crossing his arms tightly as he leveled Phinks with a glare he probably deserved. “No promises,” he said tightly, only shifting his gaze to Chrollo when Chrollo made for the door. “And get good food this time. Not more fries, Chrollo.”

Chrollo lifted a hand and waved off that comment entirely, jerking open the door. 

“Not more fries!” Feitan yelled after him, grumbling when Chrollo slammed the door and obviously pretended not to hear. Feitan shook his head and stomped over to his corner, digging out a book with more fury than was strictly necessary. “Go die of bad diet,” he muttered. “See if I care.”

“You guys know each other pretty well, don’t you?” Phinks observed softly. He tried not to bare his teeth when Feitan leveled him with a glare. “What? It’s pretty obvious.” 

There was a moment of silence. “I no need to hear your voice, idiot,” Feitan muttered, hiding his face behind his thick book. “I not Chrollo. Not your friend. Don’t try making friend with me.”

As far as dismissals went, that was fairly well earned. His hands trembled in his lap. Phinks couldn’t stop staring at them. The new bandages were a brilliant white, as white as Chrollo’s skin had been last night, bathed in the anemic light that managed to filter through the boarded up windows. His stomach, empty as it was, threatened to void itself. 

The silence was oppressive. It weighed on him more and more with every second that passed with no change. “I didn’t mean to do it,” he said when it became clear no one else was going to talk. He carefully brought his head up to look at Feitan. The man didn’t even bother to lower his book. Phinks licked his dry, cracked lips. “Last night,” he clarified, knowing it was unnecessary. “It was… It was an accident.”

“And that make it better? That you not mean to do it?”

“I didn’t say it did,” Phinks snapped. He tried to grab at his hair only to remember the state of his hands. Shit. “I didn’t want it to happen. I didn’t want to hurt him. I woke up and didn’t know where I was. Who I was with.”

“Let me guess,” Feitan interrupted, his eyes rolling so hard Phinks half thought they might pop out of his head. “He go poking at you. He not know well enough to stay back.”

“It wasn’t his fault,” he whispered, thinking how Chrollo hadn’t raised his voice or fought back, how he called out to him in that gentle, soft voice. “He wanted to help me.” And he had helped. He had talked to him. Brought him back. Wrapped his hands and k… kissed him. 

His cheeks burned and he was quick to turn his face towards the floor. “That sound like him,” Feitan muttered off in the distance. “Smartest idiot I know.”

“He’s just so  _ weird _ ,” Phinks breathed, gesturing with his hands at the ground. He looked up, wanting answered for something he had a feeling couldn’t be explained. “How is he so weird?”

Feitan’s eyes rolled, and he rubbed the bridge of his nose, dragging his hands down his cheeks. “You not the first stray he brought back with him,” he muttered, giving Phinks a beleaguered look. “You no idea how weird he is. You not even weirdest he’s found. One all holes. Another just mop brat.”

Phinks had no idea what he meant, but he couldn’t even be surprised. He’d known Chrollo for less than a week and he already had the impression that Chrollo lived to confuse those closest to him. He leaned against the wall and shook his head, watching Feitan mutter conspiratorily about Chrollo’s proclivities. Feitan was close to him, wasn’t he? Phinks hadn’t bothered with making friends since… In a long time. 

That sort of trust was a blessing. It was something you had to respect. 

“Are there a lot of you?” he wondered, hungry for even a scrap of information about who they were and what they did. “Is this what you do? Just wander the slums and pick up interesting people as you… kill mafia guys?”

Feitan snorted. “Chrollo pick up strays. I just be voice of reason he ignore. We do what we want. That’s all we do.”

“Could you be any more vague?”

That earned him a small, mean smile. It wasn’t meant for Phinks, but for the answer to the question. “We thieves,” he said simply. “We group of thieves who take what we want. Live as we want. Chrollo leader.”

Thieves. Huh. Phinks couldn’t say he was surprised, but then again.. “Why are you hunting mobsters if you steal things?” Phinks asked slowly. “Shouldn’t you be avoiding them?”

“Shouldn’t you be dead in some kennel? You a nosey dog,” Feitan sniped. “We do what we want. Some mafia bad. Some stick noses out too far. We trim down for them.”

“What do you get out of it?”

Feitan shrugged. “Ask Chrollo. I don’t pretend to know what he thinks.”

That was the first believable thing Feitan had said all day. Phinks settled against the wall, fidgeting a little as things slowly faded into strained silence once more. There was a persistent draft in the room coming in through one of the boarded up windows. He fought back a shiver. How long would Chrollo be? The room felt so much colder without him here, and not just because Feitan was here. 

“When you going to ask.”

Phinks blinked, tearing his eyes from the door to look back at Feitan. “Ask what?” he returned. 

Feitan scowled like he thought Phinks should know what he was talking about. “You ask about us. You ask about Chrollo. When you ask if you join?” he demanded. “They always wonder. Chrollo ask sometimes. They ask sometimes. When you ask me when?”

When…? Phinks’s mouth dried up, tasting like dust and that long forgotten hope he thought he’d grown out of by now. He’d been trying not to think about it. He’d been steadfastly avoiding it like the threat of punishment he knew would follow if he dared imagine it. He didn’t know these people; they didn’t know him. All any of them knew was what they had seen of each other so far. 

And of what they’d seen of Phinks...

“I don’t think… I don’t think I could if he asked,” Phinks said quietly. Feitan stared at him curiously; Phinks kept his eyes on the ground. “You saw what I did to him. You’ve seen what happens when I… when I lose control. I’m a mad dog with an expiration date. I’d be a dick if I saddled you two with that.”

Feitan let out a huff of breath. “Glad you not delusional like Chrollo then,” he admitted. He closed his eyes and settled into his corner more comfortably, tucking his chin against his chest as if he planned to nap until Chrollo came back. Phinks blinked, the disquiet pooling in his stomach like acid.

“Feitan?”

“Hmm?”

Phinks licked at his lips nervously. They were chapped and dry. Not like Chrollo’s at all. “I want you to kill me next time it happens,” he said quietly. 

A dark eye cracked open, judging him silently before closing again. “Chrollo never let me,” he said flatly. 

“That’s why I’m asking you to do it. Even if he says no. I don’t want to hurt him again. I’d rather die, and you’re the only one here who feels the same, right?”

This time Feitan opened both eyes. They were narrowed, assessing, judging his sincerity in a way that made Phinks want to fidget. “You got a spine, dog,” he observed, the ghost of a smile quirking the edges of his lips. “Not coward like I thought. Fine. Fine, I kill you. I respect man who know when he need to die.”

“Yeah, well,” Phinks muttered, resting his chin on his crossed forearms. “I was supposed to die in that ring. Has to catch up with me at some point. I’d rather it be before I hurt him again.”

Feitan gave him a thorough once over, wrinkling his nose once he was done. “You give up,” he stated. “You give up completely, no?”

Phinks shrugged. What else could he do? Chrollo believed there was more to Phinks than this, that he had value outside of the pain he could cause, but when he was hurting Chrollo… It wasn’t worth it. Any value Phinks could have wasn’t worth the risk that came with it. “I’m not trained to do anything but fight,” he murmured, suddenly so very, very tired. “To hurt. To kill. What point is there to fighting that? I don’t know how to do anything else.”

He lifted his head a little when Feitan stood up, and then a little higher still when Feitan marched across the room and stood in front of him, five feet of scowling anger that Phinks wasn’t sure how to combat. Feitan looked down at Phinks with a scowl. Something around his eyes flashed, gone in an instant. A trick of the light?

“Declan.” Feitan spat the name and rested his hands on his hips. “What he teach you?”

Phinks furrowed his brow. “What do you mean, what did he teach me? He taught me how to kill.”

“How he do it?” the man demanded, crouching down to grab at Phinks’s wrist. He gave his hand a good shake, pulling a hiss and a wince from Phinks when it jostled his broken bones. “He shit teacher. He teach you no control. You no backbone. You not know how to stop hurting, idiot.”

“Isn’t that what that nen shit is?” Phinks demanded, hackles raised automatically at the tone. He yanked at his hand but Feitan’s grip was deceptively strong for a pipsqueak. He squeezed until Phinks’s stopped fighting, his grip hard enough to bruise. 

“Pssh. He barely teach you nen. He definitely not teach you ten,” Feitan muttered, covering Phinks’s fist with his hand. “That why you keep breaking. Learn ten and you stop hurting self when you hurt others.”

“How do I learn it?” Phinks shivered as Feitan held tighter to his fist. It hurt, but that wasn’t what was getting to him. Something warm was spreading over his skin, like lukewarm water, viscous and drippy and resoundingly foreign. He tried to pull away only for Feitan to grip harder. 

“You summon aura,” the man said, chewing on his words before saying them. Phinks had a feeling his vocabulary wasn’t built for this sort of teaching. “Let it flow out body. It coat you like—” he nodded at his fist, “—and then you channel it towards part you need protected.” 

The sensation disappeared as Feitan released his hand. “That my ten moving on you. You feel it, so you not idiot with nen. Feel for yours. Practice when you sit here. Use it when you wind.”

Phinks looked up and furrowed his brow. “How do you know I wind my arm?”

Feitan rolled his eyes. “I watch you fight, idiot,” he replied. “You closer to hatsu than Declan. Ripper Cyclotron. Pfft. Dumb name, but it strong if you stop breaking hand every time.”

“Why do you care? Won’t this just make me more dangerous?”

An answer wasn’t immediate. Feitan moved back to his corner, and for a moment Phinks readied himself to ask again. He had just licked his lips and parted them when Feitan plopped himself onto the floor, leveling him with a look that dried up the words before Phinks could get them out. 

“I don’t,” Feitan said simply, the words clipped but heavy with meaning. “I don’t care about you. I care about Chrollo. Just. Chrollo.”

Phinks opened and closed his hand a few times, something tight forming in his chest. Was he… trying to teach him control? In his own way. “Caring about Chrollo means a lot to you, doesn’t it?” he murmured, beginning to understand in some odd, vague way. It meant caring about Chrollo’s safety. It meant indulging him, but always being close to keep his toys from breaking him. 

Feitan looked at the far wall, his jaw tight, his cheeks a shade pinker than they had been before. “It all that matters,” he muttered, eyes flicking to Phinks for just a second. They narrowed. “Practice. Until he come back. You practice that.”

Phinks could only nod, and that was that. Feitan turned away and closed his eyes, and Phinks looked down at his fist. And… he practiced. It was hard. Probably harder than any of the training he’d been put through under Declan’s sharp fist. It was more theory than something he could see, and the feeling came and went with his attention. Phinks’s stomach ached with hunger, and his thoughts stumbled over themselves as he fought to keep the slimy, strange aura in his fist and nowhere else. It moved without his permission. He had a feeling it would take a while until he learned how to coax it into place at will. 

He had just managed to get it down to individual fingers when the door opened. Phinks’s attention snapped like a stick as he jumped to his feet. Chrollo had a heavy bag held in both arms, and he slipped through the door, looking carefully at them both as if to see if they had fought. A relieved sigh issued from his lips, and he leaned against the door once it shut. 

“Glad to see the place is still standing,” he teased a little, judging the mood cautiously as he looked at Feitan. “Is everything… okay?”

Feitan didn’t say anything at first. He simply took in Chrollo and the bruises he’d tried to hide while he was out with his sleeves. “That depend,” he said after a moment of tense silence. A wry smile quirked at his lips. “What did you get to eat?”

Chrollo smiled, warm and wide, and held his bag a little tighter. He laughed. “Oh, you know…”

“That better not be more fries,” Feitan warned, and Phinks burst out laughing when Chrollo instantly darted behind him to hide from Feitan’s angry squawk. The bag of fast food was warm against the small of his back, defensively placed so Feitan couldn’t reach it. 

“It’s food!” Chrollo complained, using Phinks as a shield. “Food is food, Fei!”

Feitan’s outraged shriek was washed away in a wave of glee, and Phinks moved as Chrollo did, helping him guard against Feitan’s reaching hands. It was stupid, he thought, to be so relaxed when he knew what these people did. To laugh and play and fall into it like he could, like he was a friend welcome to their lives and the dynamic they had established.

“No! Phinks, get them back before he eats them all!” Chrollo cried out, tripping over a stray book as Feitan darted off with the bag of food. 

It was stupid, but Phinks was already running after Feitan, content to enjoy it while it lasted.


	5. Chapter Four

Chrollo was halfway out the door when Phinks finally gathered up the courage to ask if he could come along too. The room fell silent the moment the words passed his lips, Feitan pausing in his sword sharpening to stare at him with even sharper eyes. Phinks swallowed, keeping his attention on Chrollo who still had his hand on the handle of the door. 

“Please,” he repeated, sweating a little under the scrutiny. “I’m sick of being cooped up.”

Chrollo sighed, his smile fond. He looked at Feitan. “Do you think he’s well enough to tag along to the markets?” he asked, giving Phinks hope. Phinks instantly turned to look at Feitan too, begging with his eyes for the man to say yes. The hostility from before had faded considerably after their little talk the other day. Would it be enough to get Feitan to trust him this much? 

Feitan simply turned his attention back to the sword balanced on his knees. “Up to you,” he muttered. Phinks swore he saw the ghost of a smile on his lips. “You want to give dog a walk or no?”

“Oi!” Phinks grunted, but Chrollo was laughing. Phinks instantly looked back to him, hating how Feitan clicked his tongue knowingly when he did so. “I’m not an invalid. I won’t slow you down.” 

“That’s not really what I’m worried about, but I appreciate your spirit,” Chrollo said. He leaned against the door and assessed him for a minute, his eyes flashing for a moment. Phinks furrowed his brow. Was that just a trick of the light? Chrollo smiled at his expression. “Yeah, I think you’re well enough,” he said, standing up properly and nodding his head to follow. “Come along, then. There’s a lot I want to see, so let me know if you need to rest so we don’t overdo it, okay?”

Phinks was quick to nod and even quicker to follow after him, and he resolutely ignored Feitan’s burst of mocking laughter as it showed him out. He slammed the door shut behind him and was surprised to see that they weren’t outside, but in some sort of hallway. Chrollo was a fair distance ahead already, and Phinks jogged down the rundown hall to catch up with him. Rickety doors lined the hall on either side, a ragged and moth-bitten rug muffling their footsteps as they moved. A staircase ended the hall, taking them down, down, down. 

“What is this place?” Phinks asked, staring at old ruined paintings still hanging on the walls. The outline of faces were just barely visible beneath the build-up of dust and mildew. The familiar and somewhat distressing scent of damp sent a shiver down Phinks’s spine. It smelled a lot like the kennels in here. He didn’t like it one bit. 

Chrollo hummed as he looked around, almost as if just now realizing their surroundings. “Some old hotel, I think,” he said, running his fingers down the dusty banister as they descended the stairs into the foyer. “Fei would know more about it than me. He used to live here off and on as a kid. I think it was an attempt by the mob to open up some more places in the slum district. Gentrify the place, you know. It didn’t work out,” he said with a smile. “It’s been abandoned ever since.”

A floorboard creaked above their head. Phinks swallowed. Abandoned by the mob, maybe. But not by the city at large. The telltale marks of scavenging were obvious. Walls had been opened up to harvest the copper in the pipes and wiring, and not an ounce of furniture remained in the place. Overhead, the large skeleton of a chandelier hung like a hanged corpse from the ceiling mounting. Even the crystal had been taken, leaving nothing but bent, twisted metal behind. 

“Come over here,” Chrollo said, putting his hand to Phinks’s chest to stop him from walking further. “Follow where I walk, okay? Some of the floorboards are missing nails and it’s a long way down into the basement if you aren’t careful.” 

Before Phinks could agree, Chrollo had taken up his hand in his own, lacing their fingers together as he led them through the foyer and out the front door. Phinks’s embarrassment was outshined for a moment by the sunlight. He lifted his free hand to shield his eyes, hoping his blush could be mistaken for anything else. Chrollo’s hand was so small and soft. Phinks hid his face behind his hand, beginning to sweat despite himself. 

“It’s pretty bright out here,” Chrollo murmured, squinting his eyes as he looked at the crowded streets before them. “I think I overslept again. I wanted to get out here before the crowds woke up and took all the good things.”

Phinks slowly lowered his hand, taking a look around too. He began walking when Chrollo did, still connected at the hand as Chrollo led them down the dirt street. Beggars sat on every corner, and flocks of children ran here and there, playing and pickpocketing as they went. Phinks felt a kid bump into him and then let out a disappointed cry. He had to smile. He didn’t have any money either, kid. 

“Where are you wanting to go?” he asked, barely able to look at Chrollo when he was too busy looking at everything else. How long had it been since he’d seen proper sunlight? The streets of his childhood were far behind him, and he had to think a lot had changed since then. Nothing around him looked familiar. How far was he from his old stomping grounds?

Chrollo didn’t answer right away. He was too busy navigating the crowd, his hand tightly gripping Phinks’s. When they finally pushed through into an open space, Chrollo let out a sigh and looked up at him. “There are markets held in the outer slums every morning,” he said, pushing his hair behind his ear. “I haven’t been able to go in a while. We haven’t been back to Meteor City for a job in… probably two years? It’s hard to find the sort of stuff I like to find in the bigger cities in other countries.”

Phinks blinked. “Other countries?” he asked, but Chrollo had spotted something in the distance and Phinks stumbled forward, carried along by his excitement in an instant. The market opened up before them, and Phinks was promptly overwhelmed by the colors, the smells, and the sounds of five hundred people arguing, haggling, and eating street food from little open-faced grills dug into the earth at irregular intervals along the streetside. 

Chrollo was a bundle of energy, tugging Phinks from one side of the street to the next, constantly talking, constantly saying he had to try this, no, wait, he had to try that. Phinks watched in shock as Chrollo dished out handfuls of money as he went, buying snacks and clothes, random bits of junk from tables filled to overflowing with more of the same. It all seemed so random, really, and he wasn’t sure how to ask if what Chrollo was doing was responsible when he realized halfway through that Chrollo wasn’t making these purchases for himself. 

“Keep the change,” Chrollo said, folding an old woman’s hand closed around a hefty pile of coins. His smile was as charming to her as it was to everyone else; the woman bowed her head and accepted it gratefully, rushing to prepare the fruit drinks Chrollo had ordered as quickly as she was able. Chrollo took the time to look at Phinks while they waited. The sun gilded him like the treasure he thought this dump was. 

Phinks had to blink when he realized Chrollo had just asked him a question. “What?” he said intelligently, flushing in the muggy noonday heat. “Sorry, what did you say?”

Chrollo smiled like he knew. “I was asking if you’ve ever had this before,” he repeated, jumping to attention when the woman came back with what looked to be two plastic baggies filled with a bright red-orange liquid. Two straws were stuck through the tied opening, ready for drinking. “Thank you so much, ma’am,” he said, handing one over to Phinks. 

“Please, thank you!” she said, waving them off. “Come again, Mr. Lucilfer!”

But Chrollo was already off, leaving Phinks to nod to her and rush to follow after. Phinks fumbled with the baggy in his hands, holding it carefully so it wouldn’t spill. “I’ve never had it before, no,” he said, watching Chrollo drink from his with glee. His eyes closed in delight, his pale pink lips pursed around the end of the straw. “Did that woman know you?”

Chrollo blinked, pulling away from his drink. He licked his lips a little and shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he murmured, thinking a little. “Most people here know of me, though. We do a lot of work in Meteor City, and not just in the urban areas.” 

He didn’t see Phink frown as he wandered on to the next stand, pursuing a stack of dingy old books next. Their pages were tattered and most were lacking a cover, some even water-stained as most things were when scavenged from the dumps around them. “You steal from the poor too?” Phinks asked tightly, Chrollo’s hand hovering over the books carefully. 

Instead of getting mad at the accusation, Chrollo just kept looking at his books. “We come from these streets, Phinks,” he said softly, his fingertips alighting on a book missing its cover. He drank from his juice and smiled at whatever it was he saw on the page before him. Phinks peered over his shoulder to look, but found he couldn’t read it. The words were too big. “We don’t take from them. We just give back. I’ll have this book, please,” he told the stand owner, smiling at the old man who quickly jumped to his feet. The man’s hands shook as he wrapped the book in old newsprint, handing it to Chrollo gratefully in exchange for another handful of too many coins. 

“Keep the change,” Chrollo said yet again. The man tried to thank him, but again… Chrollo waved it off and kept walking, new book tucked in the ratty shopping bag he’d bought off another stand an hour before. 

Phinks scrambled to keep up. He drank from his juice for want of something to do. “If you have so much money, why do you even care?” he wondered. Chrollo walked with a sway in his steps, graceful and purposeful despite his decided lack of planning when it came to this little jaunt. There was a confidence to it, and also a fair bit of apathy. A contradiction in every way, really. Phinks struggled to make sense of it when Chrollo laced their fingers together and swung them gently between them.

“Because money doesn’t interest me,” Chrollo answered, glancing over his shoulder with a smile. “I don’t keep things that don’t interest me.”

Well that… That was… Phinks didn’t even know what that was, but he felt himself blush regardless. He turned his head and drank more of the delicious juice, unable to shake the thought that he might be something interesting too. His eyes raked over the stands as they passed them by. Interesting, huh. Like that old book or those ratty trinkets. Something beaten up and broken too many times to count, but still…

Chrollo still found something interesting beneath the damage.

Phinks froze. Chrollo stopped walking, turning around to see what was wrong. “Phinks?” he said, tugging on his hand gently. “What is it?”

But Phinks barely registered the touch. He was too busy being transfixed by the wares on the table beside him. A dozen mirrors were on display, some made of glass while others looked to be polished metal. A few were cracked. Phinks stared at his reflection, letting go of Chrollo’s hand to touch the bruise on his cheek. The man in the mirror did the same. 

“Is this really me?” he whispered, flinching when the reflection’s mouth moved at the same time as his own. He pulled back his lips and saw the gaps between his teeth. How many had he lost over the years? Three? Four? He ran his fingers through his short cropped hair. “I’m… My hair is blond?” 

Chrollo joined him in front of the mirrors, placing his hand on Phinks’s arm. “You didn’t know?”

Phinks shook his head. “Every time Declan cut our hair, he did it in the dark. By the time the lights came back, you couldn’t tell what hair belonged to who.” This was probably the first time Phinks had seen his own face in… God, it had to be years. He’d been in that cage for half a decade. 

He was all grown up now, wasn’t he? A man. Who would even recognize him anymore? His family? The ones who sold him for some fucking debt? His reflection shook, and Chrollo had to tug on his arm for Phinks to realize he was trembling too. 

“You have a nice face,” Chrollo said with that smile of his. “I like it.”

Bullshit. His face had been broken more times than he could count; his mouth was missing teeth. He looked in the mirror closest to himself, shaking his head. “It’s not nice,” he said, staring at Chrollo’s reflection. Chrollo had a nice face. His skin was smooth and unblemished. He didn’t have a scar in sight. 

A pale hand reached out and Phinks’s eyes widened as Chrollo turned his jaw to face him. Chrollo furrowed his brow and shook his head. “No,” he said. “It’s a nice face. A handsome one. You just need to let yourself heal first before you see it too.”

Phinks covered Chrollo’s hand with his own, holding onto it tight. It made Chrollo smile that soft, understanding little smile. An angel. No matter what he said, no matter what he did, Chrollo was an angel. Phinks bowed his head and closed his eyes. He was Phinks’s, and he wasn’t sure what he did to deserve it. 

Nothing, probably. But Chrollo was interested in him, so he got him regardless. 

Soft and warm, a kiss was pressed to Phinks’s cheek. Phinks opened his eyes, his face on fire, and promptly looked away again when he saw how Chrollo laughed. “Are you done being silly now?” he asked, tugging on Phinks’s hand. “There are some more stands I want to look at before we head back.”

“Yeah,” he said, because what else could he do but say yes to that? He followed when Chrollo began to walk, taking another drink of his half-gone juice to hide his face from sight. It tasted really good, and Chrollo’s hand in his felt really good too. The sun overhead was hot, oppressive, but the streets were alive with the sound of spirited chatter and arguing, a few kids running between the stands as they played. Phinks smiled around his straw as they moved off the main path and towards the far end of the market. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been outside like this. He certainly couldn’t remember the last time he felt this good. 

“Oh, bother,” Chrollo mumbled, holding tighter to Phinks’s hand. A shadow passed over them as they dipped beneath the overhang of an abandoned building that lined the small alleyway. 

“What is it?” They were the only ones in the path, and though the street here was narrow, it still extended fairly wide until it met the largely vacant stands owned by people who probably already sold out for the day. 

Chrollo sighed and gave Phinks’s hand a squeeze. “I was just enjoying our day, is all,” he said, right as a group of punks jumped down from the top of the building, cutting them off on both sides. 

Phinks startled horribly, his grip on Chrollo’s hand tightening. His heart hammered in his chest from the shock of it all. How hadn’t he noticed these guys? Chrollo didn’t so much as blink from the surprise. How had he known it was coming?

Before Phinks could get the chance to ask, the man in front of the rest reached out and grabbed Chrollo by the front of his shirt, ripping him from Phinks’s hand and into the wooden vendor stand nearest to them. Chrollo hit the stand and dropped his bag of juice, his tattered shopping bag ripping in the fall and scattering his belongings in the dirt. Phinks reached for him, catching him before he could hit the ground too. The attacker was some shit-grinned punk. His group of friends surrounded them in a tight circle, sneering in some half-assed attempt at intimidation. 

“We heard Lucilfer was in the neighborhood today!” the leader crowed, taking a step closer as Phinks lifted Chrollo back onto his feet. He was short compared to Phinks but tall compared to Chrollo, his shaved head bringing back nasty memories of Nile’s smug face. They all wore suits that had seen better days. Mafia, probably. Wannabe mafia at the very least. “How about you share some of that coin with us? Call it a protection fee for keepin’ these streets safe from unsavory folks.”

Instead of replying, Chrollo stared at his fallen juice. The bag was punctured, and the liquid was quickly spreading along the dirt and straw that made up the street. It disappeared into the dry earth, leaving nothing but a reddish mud behind. He let out a sigh and batted away Phinks’s hands. “What a waste,” he muttered, looking up at Phinks. “Let me take care of this, alright?”

Phinks shook his head. “No way,” he said, glaring at the men. “Let me help. We’ll get rid of them—”

Chrollo covered Phinks’s mouth with his fingers, shaking his head. “It’s fine,” he promised, looking down at Phinks’s balled up hands. “I don’t want you fighting for anyone but yourself. I’ll take care of this.”

Something tight took root in Phinks’s throat. His protests died on his tongue, and he could only nod. Chrollo smiled and pulled away, turning to address the men. He put on a smile, one that belied the power he possessed. It was placid. Unassuming. 

It was a trap. 

“What can I help you with?” Chrollo asked politely, taking a step forward. Something radiated off him in undulating waves, sending the hair on the back of Phinks’s neck standing straight up. The men shuffled antsily. “My friend and I are a bit busy right now, so I’d appreciate it if you left us alone.”

The leader stood his ground. Was he just an idiot or was he just blind to the threat Chrollo oozed? He spat into the dirt and shot Chrollo a smirk, waltzing up to him with his hands in his pockets like the thug he was trying to be. “Didn't you hear me before?” he jeered, bending at the waist to look Chrollo in the eye. “I said I wanted a fair wage for keepin’ these streets clean. Ya get me?”

Chrollo raised a brow and crossed his arms, cocking his head as he assessed the group closely. His eyes flashed like they had that morning. A smile quirked the corner of his lips. “See, if that was a service you  _ actually  _ provided, I might be inclined to share my generosity with you. From what I can tell though, you’re more likely to pick up litter than offer any protection to the ones living here.”

The man’s expression soured. His friends drew closer, spitting mad. “What did you say to me?” the leader hissed, putting his face an inch from Chrollo’s. 

Chrollo smiled. “I was implying you’re too weak to do anything of merit here,” he repeated. “As far as I can tell, you’re just trying to make off with my money, aren’t you?”

“You little bitch!” the leader roared, drawing back his fist in a fit of pique. Phinks’s stomach turned to lead, the fury too fast to block. “I’ll show you weak!”

The world seemed to slow down as Chrollo hit the dirt in a slump. Red dripped from his chin from a bitten tongue. He grunted a little, dabbing at the blood with his fingertips. The men all laughed, but Phinks seethed. 

“Wow,” Chrollo muttered just loud enough to hear. “You really are weak.”

Given all he had seen and all that he knew about Chrollo, Phinks knew that he could probably handle this on his own. But that was the rational side of Phinks, and that part of him had never been good about making its voice be heard. Phinks bared his teeth instead, letting his arms move on their own accord, flowing along with the aura—the nen—urging him to wind up. 

Once. Twice. Three times. 

He took a step forward, putting Chrollo behind him. He let that viscous feeling coat his fist like the blood he thirsted to see.

“What’s this fucker think he’s doing?” the leader laughed, turning his head to look back at his friends. His face was red from humiliation, and it seemed he wanted to posture before the rest realized Chrollo was making fun of him. He raised his thumb to point at Phinks. “Actin’ like he’s gonna deck me—”

The sound of bone shattering echoed through the narrow alleyway. The meaty thud of the leader’s ruined head hitting the ground followed, the body a moment after. Phinks panted heavily, his fist dripping blood. It wasn’t broken this time. Feitan had been right. He grinned manically at the horrified gang, putting his hand on his shoulder to wind up again. 

“Who’s next?” he spat, taking a step forward. 

The men backed up while Chrollo laughed. “That’s what power looks like,” he said from the ground, not bothering to pick himself up just yet. “Take notes. Maybe if you study hard you’ll get paid for it someday.”

A few bristled, and a few paled. Phinks bared his teeth and took a step forward, barking out a laugh when they all turned tail and ran. They stumbled and tripped over their own feet, over the loose dirt and the junk Chrollo had bought still scattered across the street. Phinks contemplated chasing after them. He felt wired up; he wanted an outlet after so long sitting in that room. But Chrollo was still in the dirt. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, lowering his fists as he turned back to face his fallen friend. 

Friend. Phinks had to smile. His angel, really. Always that.

He held out a hand and helped Chrollo to his feet. “Are you alright?” he asked, noticing immediately how Chrollo frowned and glared at the ground. “They didn’t hurt you, did they? I’ll fucking kill the rest of them if they—”

Chrollo shook his head, meeting his eye. “That’s the thing,” he said, holding Phinks’s hand in his own. He ran his fingers along the bandages, frowning when he saw how his fingers were bruised this time, but not broken. “I thought you didn’t want to fight anymore. I’m sorry you had to get involved in that.”

Phinks just shook his head. He stared at his bloody fist. He barely felt the pain anymore. It was a familiar ache, but the rest didn’t feel like it had before. There was no fear now, no sense of unease at killing some brat to save his own skin. And it wasn’t apathy he felt now either. If anything… he felt alive. He felt better now than he ever had before, and when he looked upon the corpse at their feet, it was impossible to see that ring, the crowd, or the sting of needles urging him to fight.

His hand might be damaged, but he knew it would heal stronger for it.

“It’s fine,” he promised, giving Chrollo a smile. “I don’t mind.” Not when it was for Chrollo.

His heart lurched in his chest when Chrollo beamed at him brightly. He might have just found something to use his fists for after all. 


	6. Chapter Five

It took a few days for Feitan and Chrollo to finish whatever it was they came here to do. Phinks still wasn’t sure what it was they did entirely; he had a feeling he shouldn’t ask too many questions. At least, not just yet. It didn’t matter to him what they did to make the money Chrollo spent so freely. He knew what kind of people they were; the rest was secondary. 

So, when he woke up one morning—or maybe afternoon, it was impossible to tell really with the windows boarded up and Chrollo and Feitan’s seemingly random schedules—to the sound of shifting fabric and rustling bags, Phinks was quick to jump up and see what it was they planned to do next. There had been no talk yet of what would become of Phinks. He was reasonably certain they wouldn’t kill him for knowing their faces, or at least Chrollo wouldn’t allow Feitan the pleasure. The rest though… The rest wasn’t as clear. 

“Oh, he finally wake,” Feitan said by way of greeting. It was as good as a good morning from him, Phinks knew, and despite the rudeness of it, it was a right side friendlier than what they started with, that was for sure. Feitan shoved another book into his bag and lifted a hand to push his hair from his face. “You sleep too much.”

Phinks rolled his eyes. “You just don’t sleep enough,” he muttered, taking in the carnage that had become the room. “Are you guys leaving?”

Feitan looked at Chrollo, his silence enough to tell Phinks that he should be asking Chrollo, not him. Chrollo lifted his head after a moment or two, eyes wide as if he hadn’t been paying attention to their conversation. He looked at them both, tilting his head. “What?”

It was a little harder to ask it a second time. It just made the possibility for rejection that much more likely. Phinks swallowed nervously. “Are you leaving?” he asked again, resolutely ignoring Feitan’s intense stare as it drilled holes in the side of his head. 

Chrollo blinked, looking down at the bags and clothes he had been shoving messily into any available space he could find. “Yes,” he said matter-of-factly. “We finished up our job in this area, so there’s no reason to keep hanging around.”

“Ah. Cool.” 

Feitan let out a muffled snort. Phinks swung around, glaring at him until he stopped. His ears were burning, and it didn’t seem like Chrollo had noticed anything amiss in him asking. Dragging his hand through his hair, Phinks turned back around, forcing himself to keep breathing. 

“What will you do next?” he asked, swallowing the urge to ask what would become of him. He had a feeling Chrollo would look confused if he said that, and then tell him that was up to him, now wasn’t it? “Will you meet up with your group again?”

Chrollo’s slender hand folded beneath his chin, propped up on his other arm as he pondered the question. “I suppose we’ll get in contact with them at some point,” he murmured, more thinking out loud than answering Phinks directly. “Last I heard, Machi was hanging around the the capital. Perhaps we’ll go there? Feitan, what do you think? Should we get involved again after this whole fiasco?”

Phinks looked at Feitan who shrugged dismissively as he folded a shirt and laid it neatly on top of his books. “Your call. I don’t care.”

“Hmm, you’re no help.” Chrollo smiled at Phinks then, stunning him for a moment. “We tend to play things by ear more often than not. I suppose we’ll just pick a direction and see where we end up.”

He tried to look nonchalant, nodding as if that made sense. Shifting on his folded knees, he glanced at Feitan for the help he knew he wouldn’t give. Should he just… go for it? It would be stupid of him to assume he was going just because they hadn’t said otherwise. The last thing he wanted to do was force himself on them too. But what would he do if they said no? What sort of guarantee could he give that he wouldn’t lash out? That he wouldn’t be a liability?

As much as Phinks knew he wasn’t safe, he knew what would become of him if he stayed behind in a place like this. He’d been sent an angel for a reason, right? 

Phinks took a deep breath. He had to ask. He had to at least know that if this were a path open to him. Living uncertain was worse than dying knowing. He let out his lungful of air and bit the bullet. If it hit him in the end, at least he would know he tried.

“I want to join you,” he said, closing his eyes instinctively. 

The shuffling and packing stopped in an instant. Feitan made a questioning sound. Chrollo stayed quiet, and Phinks opened an eye slowly, peeking at the expressions they wore. 

Feitan cleared his throat, raising a brow pointedly. “What you say?” he asked. “You speak too fast. All mumble.”

Oh, fuck. Phinks blushed horribly, rubbing the back of his neck. He cleared his throat to buy time, second guessing himself every step of the way. “Well,” he began, his voice cracking a little. It pulled a snort from Feitan and a soft chuckle from Chrollo. He cleared his throat again. “Well, I was. I mean, I just… I don’t have anywhere to go. I’m… I’m not good for much.” Phinks forced himself to look at Chrollo and Chrollo alone. He was the one he needed to ask; not Feitan, not the floor, and certainly not that voice inside his head telling him to turn tail and run before he could be disappointed again. 

“I want to go with you,” Phinks said, his voice firm, his gaze strong. Chrollo was giving him his full attention. His slender hands were folded in his lap, his packing put to the side. Phinks fidgeted, sweating a little beneath his collar. “Please. Let me join your group.”

The room fell silent in the wake of his words. A dark blur of movement caught Phinks’s attention out of the corner of his eye, and he spared the barest of glances only to find that Feitan had gone back to his packing, ignoring him in favor of letting Chrollo handle it. Phinks sat a little straighter and looked at Chrollo who looked at him. What was he thinking about? The best way to say no? Chrollo was a nice person after all. Maybe he wouldn’t make this more painful than it had to be when he inevitably said no—

“I’m not opposed to it,” Chrollo said, his voice cracking Phinks’s negative thoughts to pieces. Phinks lifted his head, not realizing he’d been looking at the floor, and found Chrollo assessing him with his hand beneath his chin, his dark brow furrowed in thought. “You’re strong and fun. What do you think, Fei? Will he get along with the rest?”

Phinks whipped around to look at Feitan, hating how eager he must look right now. His heart hammered in his chest, his blood pounding between his ears. Feitan finished zipping up his bag as slowly as he possibly could, giving the both of them a lazy expression in return. 

“I not care,” he muttered, the corner of his lip quirking upwards as he crossed his arms. “You collect freaks. What one more do? You have full set soon.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Phinks said, prompting Feitan to stick out his tongue. Chrollo laughed, ruining the anger on its way and replacing it instead with something warmer. Phinks swallowed and carefully faced Chrollo. “It’s… Are you sure? I’m… not the safest person to be around.”

“Who not have confidence now?” Feitan lobbed at his turned head, but Chrollo was rolling his eyes, smiling like an angel, looking at Phinks as if he were something he was fond of. 

“I think you’ll fit in well with the rest of us,” he said gently, looking down at his half-packed bag. “We all have our demons. We all have our fights to fight, but it’s easier together, isn’t it? Finding meaning… it’s not a simple thing. An idea is easier to defend than a single person. It’s something to work towards, and something to die for. Something with meaning,” he said, speaking in riddles that Phinks wanted to learn to understand. Chrollo smiled. “You’re welcome to join us, Phinks. I think we’re exactly what you’re searching for.”

He looked up from his bag and pinned Phinks in place with his gaze. As gentle as it was, as soft as the black of his eyes were, it weighed on Phinks regardless. “You won’t have to use your fists for anyone but yourself,” he told him, a promise at the very root of it all. “We live freely while we live at all. You’ll never be caged again.”

Phinks’s breath rattled in his chest when he sucked in a sudden breath, and it was only thanks to the sound that he realized his eyes were growing wet. He scrubbed at his face hurridly, refusing to let Feitan see. “Thank you,” he mumbled, garbled and muffled but there nonetheless. It was all he had ever wanted. It was more than he ever dared to dream.

“We’ll head out once we finish this,” Chrollo said a few moments later, nodding at the bags, the blankets, the purchases Chrollo had accumulated at the markets during their stay. His smile was as warm as Phinks’s cheeks. “Hold tight; it won’t take long.”

Phinks would die for him. The realization came quickly, suddenly, like a punch to the gut and a blow to the spine. He nodded his head mutely, staring at Chrollo, clenching his hands in his shirt to hold the small little cross tight. He would die for this person. Chrollo had said to use his fists for himself… 

Impossible. It was impossible to do that when he could use them for Chrollo instead. 

Phinks didn’t have anything to pack. He simply sat and waited, watching with a grin on his face that he didn’t need Feitan to tell him looked stupid and pleased. He felt it. Deep down to the pit of his stomach, Phinks felt content. Bit by bit the room was packed away, and Phinks rushed to stand when Chrollo and Feitan shouldered their backpacks and made their way to the door. 

“You like big puppy,” Feitan muttered, shouldering past him to head down the hall ahead of them. “Too eager. Tail wagging.”

“It’s cute, isn't it?” Chrollo posed before Phinks could come up with a witty retort. The annoyance disappeared instantly, and Phinks was at Chrollo’s side, smiling in response to the one sitting so comfortably on Chrollo’s lips. Phinks blushed when Chrollo rose up on his toes to pat Phinks’s head. “I’m glad you’re excited. Work hard with us, okay? We’ll take care of you.”

Phinks managed a quick smile at him before he had to look away. Feitan paused at the bottom of the stairs to look up at them and sigh. “You coming?” he called out, impatient as anything. “I not wait forever.”

“Yes, we’re coming,” Chrollo replied, tugging Phinks by the arm down the stairs. He turned his attention back to Phinks, his brow furrowed a little. “We’ll need to get you some things too. More clothes and things like that. It’s probably better to look in the capital for that sort of thing… Hmm, maybe we should meet up with Machi after all?”

Phinks knew well enough by now when Chrollo was talking to himself, not him. He bobbed his head dutifully though, letting his smooth voice roll over him as he worked out the problem in his own time. The hotel hall was empty still, but regular creaks from the ceiling above gave proof enough that the other occupants were awake and well doing whatever it was they did up there. Live, probably. Something Phinks was only just learning how to do himself. With Chrollo guiding him along, through the treacherous floor and out of the foyer, Phinks felt safe. He felt like he could trust the direction Chrollo was leading him in. 

The sun was blindingly bright once they left the shadowy overhang. It baked the earth beneath his feet, and even with the breeze carding through his hair, Phinks felt stifled. He began to sweat immediately. Chrollo let go of his arm to wipe the sweat from his own brow. He smiled up at Phinks, shaking his head as if to say  _ hot, isn’t it? _

“Come on already!” Feitan grumbled, already through the gates. He shifted his bag higher on his shoulder, fanning himself with his hand. “It hot enough out here. Don’t make it take longer.”

Chrollo snorted and put on a burst of speed, walking ahead of Phinks to join his friend up ahead. “You have an umbrella, Fei. Why don’t you use that?” he suggested.

“It a sword!” Feitan snipped, the heat doing no favors to his mood. “I not some rich lady with parasol.”

“Let me use it then,” Chrollo teased, making a swipe for the umbrella that Feitan quickly drew out of reach. “I’ll be a rich lady with a parasol. This heat is terrible.”

As they spoke, they walked, and Phinks was greeted with the understanding that this was habit for them. That when it came to traveling, to exploring, to living, these two had it down to an artform, their teasing and squabbling just another facet to their play. Phinks paused at the gates, and for a moment he just watched Chrollo and Feitan bicker up ahead. They rubbed shoulders and pushed at each other playfully. They were killers, Phinks knew. Stronger than anything he’d ever seen before, but they still laughed. They still teased. His hand fisted in his shirt, holding the cross just beneath the thin fabric. 

Friends. He had friends in them. Maybe something more. 

The dirt beneath his feet was soft. Phinks pulled the necklace off and knelt beside the gate post, dipping his hand in the soil and scooping out handfuls until he had a deep hole. A grave was a luxury in Meteor City, even for the people who lived freely. For dogs like Phinks, like Iason, what they got was rarely what they deserved. Phinks wasn’t sure where Iason’s bones were. Probably long gone in some junk heap, bleached white and broken in the sun. There wasn’t much to be done for it now, but…

If Phinks were leaving this place, he had to put those spirits to rest. Once and for all.

The cross was thin, bent a little at one end. The chain was tarnished and knotted in places, repaired sloppily in the dark. It shined brilliantly in the sun. Was he supposed to say something special? His tongue felt too clumsy for this sort of thing. Mourning the dead was a luxury as well. In a place like this, you were lucky to be remembered at all.

“Phinks?” Chrollo called out, his voice distant but growing closer. “Phinks, where are you? Aren’t you coming?”

“I’ll be right there!” he shouted back, heart hammering in his chest from just the sound of Chrollo’s voice. He looked back at the cross. It wasn’t fair that he was tasting this freedom while Iason rotted. Phinks… He wouldn’t be standing here if not for Iason. A friend in the dark was a friend all the same. They deserved better, but instead they had each other.

The cross was warm. Warm in the sun, no darkness in sight.

Phinks held tightly to the cross in his hand for a moment, and then slowly let go. He dropped it into the hole with a slight smile. If he had any words to give a spirit long gone, he kept them to himself. Iason would know regardless. He was perceptive like that. Phinks on the other hand? He wasn’t. He wasn’t smart or clever or sharp. He had his fists and not much besides.

His fists and a new way to use them.

“Phinks? Hurry up! The market will close soon!”

Phinks laughed, laughed hard enough to justify the moisture pricking his eyes. 

He didn’t believe in God, but his angel had come. In fact, he was calling for him right now, eager to be on their way. Phinks stood and covered the hole with the soft, dark dirt. He dusted off his hands, heart lighter than it had ever been before.

Chrollo was calling for him. 

He’d be a fool not to keep that miracle in sight. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we have it! I hope you guys enjoyed it. I had a lot of fun writing it and even if I didn't have time this year to write a book for the event, I hope I at least satisfied you with a movie instead. Now if only I could convince Togashi to make this the next (and only decent) hxh movie? 
> 
> Anyway, thank you guys for reading! I'll be sure to post links to the art once it arrives. Also, the title of this fic comes from the Pop Evil song, Waking Lions. Definitely give it a listen if you're into rock music, I think it fits this fic (and especially the ending) really well. 
> 
> As always, until next time!

**Author's Note:**

> Hey so if you like my work, consider leaving a comment and letting me know! Feel free to follow me on tumblr too to see more of my fanfiction (terminallydepraved) and my original work (tdcloud). Until next time~


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